No Bounds
by azure-tears
Summary: [H&F, M&B] Mr. Herriman has always been very private. However, when the truth comes out he has a secret crush, what will he do? Will she reciprocate? While he wonders, Mac and Bloo grow closer...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I say this and warn you now that you must have an open mind to continue. Mac and Bloo as a couple is a definite and the other couple is not one to be encountered lightly. That's all I'll say. Rakal, Los Doberman, and Mr. Blue already know what I'm talking about.

To speak like Eduardo, Foster's no es mine.

Chapter One: L'amour secret

Sighing heavily, Frankie mopped a stray strand of red hair behind her ear and leaned heavily on her vacuum cleaner. Herriman might have an office on the first floor, but he insisted on a private scouring in his ninth floor bedroom. She'd been in here pretty much since lunch time and envied those eating dinner now. Brilliant reds, pinks, and oranges streaked across the sky and its setting sun. At least Herriman had the decency to prepare dinner in her absence (though he insisted it'd be better without her anyway).

Finished tucking in the corners of his bed, her eyes skidded to a jutting journal under the corner of his mattress. Normally, she discounted any private mementos of Foster's residents, but the temptation was too great. It'd been a while since she'd gotten any good dirt on him and after spending six hours cleaning his damn room, she gladly welcomed anything, immoral or not. Besides, good dirt meant getting your hands dirty.

Glancing around to ensure no one spied on her, she snatched the small, leather bound tome out from its pinned position and opened it to the bookmark. Tidy scrawled words she immediately recognized as his script flowed freely through what she deigned was a quill. He'd never done well with ball point pens, anyway. Madame Foster had remarked, smiling, that he seemed to be stuck in the past. She often joked she wouldn't be surprised if she found out he had a crush on a long dead celebrity.

In fact, when she reached the end of the page and turned cautiously, certain he'd detected her hand oils, she discovered the object of his affections. Smirking, she read on, captivated. Surely she'd unravel "Ingrid Bergman" amidst the rambling. She was so convinced she'd find an old name, she had to reread the actual one. When she did, the book fell from her open palms and clattered to the floor.

**…**

Bloo yawned luxuriously and stretched out, his stomach whacking the bottom of the table. He thought he might have heard Herriman comment on his abysmal table manners, but he scoffed. When Mac left for the day, things tended to suck. Visits from his creator cheered him, perhaps more than they had in the past. In fact, pleasant butterflies erupted in the pit of his stomach now.

_It's just 'cuz I'm really happy to see him, that's it. Those stupid dreams have nothing to do with it. Coco has no idea what she's talking about when she says I moan Mac's name on my sleep. Feh._

Even so, he had to admit he was very easily distracted and more prone to daydreams without his creator around. And most of said daydreams involved he and his creator locked tightly like in those soaps. The aforementioned butterflies swooped up and bounced against the mac and cheese. It'd had brown spots too, probably because Herriman had given him the ones at the bottom of the pot. Hmph.

Shoving the chair away and neatly placing it in its proper position, he collected his plates and glass. However, both slipped from his grasp upon a shriek.

**…**

Mac idly penciled in another answer and stifled a yawn. Though it was only seven o'clock, he'd spent the past two hours restoring order to his chaotic apartment. Naturally, his eighteen year old brother had no concept of the mess he'd generously imparted to him. Gritting his teeth, he bit back a snarl. It was times like these he missed Bloo- he'd have come up with a way to get him back by now. Instead, Mac simply fixed whatever broke and hoped for the best. He was too docile.

Was it his imagination or was Bloo blushing around him? If he was imagining it, then he was imagining his own reactions. Stomach fluttering with butterflies, he forced himself to scrutinize his math homework. Nothing unusual transpired at Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and his imaginary friend definitely did _not _have a crush on him. And it wasn't reciprocated, either. Right.

**…**

Skirt rustling, Frankie tore out of Herriman's bedroom like a bat out of hell. Nearly upending an imaginary friend, she spurted the three staircases down to her room and then, left hand trembling, locked her door. The right, much to her chagrin, clutched his journal in disbelief. Five minutes passed until she breathed normally.

She wanted to know for certain what she was up against and if this was indeed the truth, but she didn't dare exit. Right now, she'd prefer fending off a three headed dragon with a sharpened stake. At least they never harbored any secret feelings. They were who they acted like- vicious man-eating dragons. No nasty surprises in every box, kiddies.

Sinking down, she hugged her knees to her chest and glared at it. Every cell in her body cursed its very existence. She vowed never to open it again…when it fell open of its own accord. Yet she wouldn't look; she'd ignore its alluring pages…

"Miss Frances!" Herriman's voice rang throughout the house and she buried her face in her hands. She couldn't face him, especially not after this. Her knees trembled badly beneath her and threatened to fold. No, rising was not an option. He'd have to do this himself or not at all. If he could write _that, _then her body could crumple under her. A shudder rocked her.

"Miss Frances!" he called insistently and she rose only to collapse. This was no good. She'd have to say something, but what?

_I'm sorry, Mr. Herriman, but I accidentally on purpose read your journal and discovered your terrible secret? I can't face you now? _The words sounded hollow in her mind.

"Miss Frances, if you do not open this door immediately, then I will be forced to implement-"

Frankie did him one better. Opening the door wide, she tossed the book. It struck him in the forehead and knocked him out. Trembling violently, she shut and locked the door again.

Bloo cautiously sidestepped the unconscious rabbit and spurted towards his room. He only gave the book a cursory glance before deciding it wasn't anything interesting. Besides, if it belonged to Herriman, it had to be boring. It was a rule, he thought.

Coco trilled warnings at his back, but he brushed her off. Eduardo and Wilt weren't doing anything he'd be uncomfortable interrupting, she was imagining things, and he _wasn't _dreaming of making out with Mac, so would she stop asking? Jeez. Why was she going on about Wilt and Ed being a couple, anyway? It was ridiculous.

Prideful and smirking, he tried the doorknob only to discover it was locked. Locked? Why would they lock him out of his room? Unless there was a present they didn't want him to see? Yeah, that was it!

"(They aren't talking, Coco!)" she snapped, snatching him and nearly swallowing him. He reached for the knob, but she stomped off with him as her unwilling prisoner.

**…**

Twiddling a checker piece in his left hand, Wilt genially awaited Eduardo's next move. Contrary to popular belief, they were not a couple. They just preferred silence and uninterrupted peace when they played checkers. Eduardo was prone to upsetting the board and their game if someone came darting in uninvited, like Bloo.

"Frankie es upset?" Eduardo frowned, contemplating his move. Charily, he shifted one piece forward only to have Wilt capture it. Naturally, he apologized and then frowned, wondering himself. The shriek had been loud enough to hear several floors down.

"I'm sorry! And yeah, it sounds like it. Maybe we ought to find out what's bothering her…"

He trailed off, staring in astonishment at his next move. The purple furred imaginary friend grinned toothily at him.

"King me!"

**…**

Madame Foster had noticed odd developments in Mr. Herriman's behavior as of late. Sometimes she caught him staring off into space and slipping into daydreams. Unfortunately, whenever she tried to pry the information out as to whom, he snapped abruptly back to his normal self and denied everything. Most people might have stopped after a few unsuccessful attempts, but she was not most people. Eyes twinkling, she decided her new goal was to discover the object of his affections.

Hobbling down the hallway, she stopped and watched her creation groggily lift himself from the floor and hop away, shaking his head and rubbing his sore forehead. Cradled in his left hand was a leather-bound book. Craning her neck, she sought its title, but there seemed to be none. Ah, well. She was certain her granddaughter would love to discuss his love life and potentially embarrass her imaginary friend. Well, actually, the second part never entered her mind.

Knocking politely, she was surprised to hear Frankie groan and ask whoever it was to leave. Her voice was panicked and distressed. Reaching the doorknob, she twisted it only to discover a force wedged it shut. Putting two and two together, she surmised her granddaughter was leaning against it. The question was- why?

"Dearie, is anything wrong?" she inquired politely, banging the door again nimbly. Frankie sighed, but said nothing.

"Grandma, I'd really like to be left alone right now." _Especially considering it's **your **imaginary friend that wrote that. I can't come out and tell you…_

"That's all right, sweetie…" she said soothingly and Frankie sighed again, relieved. Unfortunately, she underestimated her grandmother's tenacity. Wielding her cane, she rapped the door smartly several times before Frankie, groaning, sprang forth. Of course her grandmother couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. She just wished she would.

"_Now_," she said, grinning devilishly, "what on earth are you all worked up about?"

The clock struck nine thirty and Frankie grinned, glad for a reprieve. Time for a little foul mouthed humor on CC involving four eight year old boys, including a racist, a Jew, and a desperately poor blond haired child. Ignoring any further questions, she switched on her thirteen inch television set safely nestled away from prying imaginary eyes (in other words, Bloo) and relaxed. There was no way she could think about Herriman when she was watching a kid in a parka mutter muffle obscenities.

Madame Foster rolled her eyes and decided the second best target was her imaginary friend. Smirking, she shut the door and tracked him. Curiosity compelled her forward- she loved a good mystery. Onward ho!

**…**

**So…who _is _Herriman crushing on? If you read this chapter carefully, you'd know. (And, uh, if I told you already).**

**And, of course, Mac and Bloo surfaces again. They'll never die! (cackles)**

**You guys know the drill. Read and review (and if you read Stranded, I apologize for stopping and deleting it, but I cannot write flat out humor). (I struggled through the second chapter tremendously).**

**Until we meet again…**


	2. Suppression

Author's Note/Disclaimer: If you are adverse to Frankie/Herriman, turn back _now_. I will not tolerate any flamers. I'm serious. To quote Lois from Family Guy, "I'm like a momma hawk. Mess with my babies and I'll rip your fucking throat out."

I might be in college, but I still have time to track you down and make you _pay_. That being said, enjoy!

Oh, and Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to the lovely people at Cartoon Network and Craig McCracken. Not me.

Chapter Two: Suppression

Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, maybe he merely desired to explain what she read, but a torturous half hour later had planted him firmly in front of her door. Frankie refused to unlock it and permit him entrance, thus he stated his case here. No one was around, anyway; it was bad enough the object of his affections had discovered his secret. If Madame Foster or any other imaginary friend uncovered him, he couldn't bear to think of it.

"Miss Frances, I do not feel like discussing this on your doorstep!" Mr. Herriman snapped haltingly and peered down either side of the hall. He'd narrowed escaped his creator before and he was in no hurry to do it again. Madame Foster proved extremely efficient at milking information out of him, simply because she'd created him and she knew him better than anyone else. It irked him at times.

"Then don't! I'm not letting you in!" Frankie retorted and folded her pillow over her head. Outside, the imaginary rabbit sighed heavily and rapped smartly on her door. Memories of her grandmother doing so previously caused her to clutch the pillow tighter. Crazy rabbit and equally crazy creator.

"Please, Miss Frances," he said wearily, rubbing his eyes with his gloved hand. Currently scandalized and violated, he was in no mood to debate his feelings in such a public place. No one knew who might pass by and overhear his predicament. Shuddering, his gaze swept the area again and imagined Bloo or someone else hiding behind every shrub. He almost preferred dogs to this horrible exposure.

"Just let me watch TV in peace! You've done enough damage for one day!" she hissed and curled up, Powerpuff socks uncovered, beneath the blanket. In all honesty, she hadn't the faintest clue what she was watching, but it beat dealing with Herriman. On the screen, two boys argued earnestly over a controller and a redheaded girl displayed a plate of food a raven haired boy gagged at. Another girl with purple hair levitated above the couch and read; her eyes were trained on her book and no one else. In the madness, she alone kept her sanity.

"Frankie…" Herriman said desperately, dropping the formality, "you don't know who's listening. I would rather not discover Master Blooregard hiding in a closet and revealing every word of our conversation."

Unenthusiastically placing the remote aside, she threw the cotton pink blanket aside and unlocked the door. Mr. Herriman's black eyes pierced through her and she suddenly understood his urgency. By nature he was private and anything this private never slipped out, even by accident. Not only had it escaped, but it reached the last person he wanted to see it. If she weren't bewildered, astonished, chagrined, and uneasy, she might pity him. Sighing, she opened the door wide enough for his entrance and then locked it once he hopped inside.

"We are in quite a predicament," he murmured finally and hopped to her computer chair. It swiveled unpredictably and he, panic stricken, grabbed her desk. Frankie watched amusedly as he attempted to force it to remain steady. Apparently, he was used to stagnant chairs and wasn't sure what to make of this.

"We? You're the one…" The words died on her tongue. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say or how to say it. Shaking his head, he nearly fell off but grasped the desk in the nick of time. The tension was thick enough for a knife's perforation.

"Though I feel a reprimand is in order for rifling through my private thoughts regardless of my privacy, I shall forgo that. I expect…I expect you would like an explanation." He hung his head and sighed heavily. Frankie frowned, not expecting him to be so unguarded and open around her. He looked vulnerable, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Unconsciously, she shifted closer and pulled a chair a few feet away.

An uneasy silence descended upon the two. Frankie wavered and tossed out a dozen questions that sounded better in her head than would aloud. Why hadn't she noticed this before? His eyes had lingered on her more than once in the past few months and she'd merely discounted it as his way of mentally accruing her. She hadn't noticed any blushes or awkwardness (though if she had, she might have discounted that too). Where had all this come from? And why her?

Likewise, Herriman's thoughts swirled around. How could he express his affections when he had difficulty telling his creator he loved her? How could he tell her how this had happened when he didn't even remember himself? How could he bring himself to confess everything when it normally stayed under lock and key? If she hadn't found his accursed journal, it might have stayed that way, too.

"Miss Frances, you _are _aware that you have dishonored not only me, but yourself? You have perused my personal belongings and to what end? I should have thought you had more manners than a common maid," he finished and frowned at her. To his surprise, she frowned back. She wasn't convinced.

"No wonder I didn't notice. You were too busy chewing me out," she muttered and his cheeks turned pink.

"If you are going to read other people's journals, then you should expect things you might not like. It is not my fault that you found something not to your liking," he replied and folded his arms across his chest. She hadn't noticed it before, but he often used formality as a way to avoid confrontation. He was doing it now- hiding behind a mask.

"And perhaps I should have hidden it better," he murmured. Gaze downcast, he stared at her carpet. Frankie hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder. Warm fur met her hand and she blushed.

Charily, he extricated his paw from his glove and squeezed her hand. Frankie suppressed the involuntary reflex to jump. In all her years, she never recalled him so much as touching her cheek tenderly. His bare paw felt alien but somehow pleasant against hers. She didn't know why, but adrenaline rushed through her. She felt almost…giddy.

"How-how long have you…?" she whispered, awestruck. The mood suited whispers and murmurs. To speak any louder was to break the sacrosanct settling and perhaps wrench his paw from her hand. More than anything else, she wanted to keep that contact. Her heart skipped a beat.

"A…about six months. I did not think it would last…" he murmured and, trembling, he stroked her cheek. Scarcely breathing, her heart beat like a jackhammer and her palms sweat profusely. Regardless, his paw held her hand.

"I…" she started. Once again, words failed her. He smiled weakly at her and leaned in closer...her breath caught in her throat...her heart wouldn't stop pounding...

Loud banging commenced and Mr. Herriman jerked guiltily away. Heat flooded his face and he hopped off the chair. Wordlessly, he tried the doorknob only to discover it was, like it'd been ten minutes ago, still locked. His face glowed like the setting sun.

Fumbling, he amended the situation and then hopped out wordlessly. Frankie stared blankly after him and wondered what the hell had just happened. Her heart still pounded in her chest and her palms were slick with sweat. What would have happened if they'd been uninterrupted? Would he have kissed her? Would she have liked it? She had no idea.

Shaking her head and mentally berating whatever situation shoved her under that spell, she decided to never put herself in that situation again. She didn't want to find out what would happen.

**…**

"Master Blooregard!" Mr. Herriman snapped and halted Bloo, banging a pot against the wall. The blue blob stared up at him innocently and tossed him a quarter for "his troubles". Needless to say, Mr. Herriman was not amused.

"What? I'm trying to see if it sounds different if you drum it here instead of in the dining room," he replied nonchalantly and slammed it so hard, he knocked plaster off the walls. The imaginary rabbit snatched the offending apparatus from his arms before he did any more damage. Bloo had alone cost Foster's at least thirty thousand dollars, if not more. Sometimes, he wondered if keeping him here was more trouble than it was worth. Then he thought- of course it was. It was only because they liked Mac they didn't shove Bloo on the streets.

"That is not proper conduct," he chastised, brandishing the pot threateningly. Bloo's azure eyes tracked its arch and he lunged for it, but Herriman held it tantalizingly out of his grasp. No matter how many times he jumped, he never reached it. Sick satisfaction filled the rabbit- he'd ruined what might have potentially been one of the best moments of his life. If he could steal Bloo's thunder, then it pleased him greatly.

"Come _on_!" he groaned and lunged once more. Chuckling darkly, Mr. Herriman hopped down the halls and continued this until they reached the kitchen.

**…**

Mac pounded the pillow much like his creation had the pot. Sleep evaded him and he rolled over onto his back to contemplate the ceiling. Inky blackness consumed the room and disguised familiar shapes. When he was younger, years before Bloo had to live at Foster's, he'd been frightened by the dark and its secrets. Bloo had yelled at the supposed closet monster and, when nothing tore out to attack them, decided it was afraid of imaginary friends. He'd lain back on his pillow and smiled; they'd shared a bed and fell asleep wrapped around each other.

Of course, he was far too old to believe that creature might return, but he still longed for Bloo's company. Rolling over onto his side, he folded his arms across his chest. The notion was preposterous- he didn't need him like he had then. Then, he'd been younger, vulnerable, and chilled by his father's death. He'd clung to him like a safety blanket and Bloo had only been too happy to oblige.

Frankie had relaxed the rules and permitted him a lapse whenever necessity dictated it, but he seldom missed a day anyway. Seeing Bloo lent him a ray of sunlight into an otherwise dreary world, but he never considered the effect it had on him in other areas. Sure, Bloo was a friend…but that didn't usually mean anything else. Maybe because he'd preferred imaginary friends to humans, he'd lost a chance to interact with someone like him. The sad thing was he didn't think there was anyone else.

Perplexing himself, he sighed. Maybe he was trying to distract himself from the true problem. Bloo was constantly on his mind and in his dreams. He wanted to believe he was worried because he'd nearly gotten himself thrown out recently, but that wasn't it. His stomach churned and he gnawed his lip contemplatively.

_Come on, you have to **sleep**, _he thought angrily and glared at the ceiling. He spent many hours staring at it.

**…**

Mr. Herriman too stared up at the ceiling and sighed heavily. Though he wanted to pass Frankie's room, he didn't dare. Being alone proved far too volatile. What if Madame Foster had been the one to knock on her door? What if they weren't locked in next time and she found them in that kind of embrace? Maybe he ought to stow his feelings where they belonged.

But when he contemplated throwing them away, Frankie's brilliant jade eyes flashed and he felt her soft skin beneath his paw. What could have been haunted him. What on earth was wrong with him? He wasn't a creature with vices. He should be able to put his emotions behind him.

After all, he was a properly dignified creature. Dignified imaginary friends did not prostrate themselves in front of humans, especially their creator's granddaughter. They didn't (he swallowed hard) dream of kissing her or holding her. They were properly restrained in all manners.

Unfortunately for him, the shackles were loosening and he, like Mac, spent many hours staring up at the ceiling and wondering what on earth had happened.

**…**

She didn't like him. He annoyed her to no end and made her want to claw his eyes out. Besides, he was her grandmother's imaginary friend. He was out of bounds.

Yet try as she might, she couldn't erase the sensation of his paw on her hand or his soft fur. The ceiling drew her attention and she stared at it, but it provided no answers. Instead, it loomed above, a silent witness to unspoken thoughts and desires.

**…**

**I don't feel like replying to reviews, but I'll say that it won't focus very much on Mac and Bloo, Rakal, if that helps any. But I thought I might as well have a springboard anyway…and I'm the only Mac/Bloo writer here. Ugh.**

**Madame Foster's a lot better when she's not on her deathbed, heh. She's fun.**

**As for Bloo being able to transform, I'm going to see how far I can go without using that. If I can't, then he will be a humanoid. But we'll see.**

**And don't die from the suspense, people. Then you can't read more.**

**Well, thanks for reading and reviewing, my friends. Please continue to do so…and don't flame. I _will _get you if you do. **


	3. Heartbreak

Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends is not mine. Fortunately, I won't make the same mistake I made with Sunrise, Sunset and accidentally leave in one chapter of Savage Garden lyrics, thereby allowing some asshole to report me and have the whole story taken off in one go. So if you were hoping to read it, I'm sorry, but I don't have a copy and I don't know anyone who does.

And I was banned from uploading for a freakin' week, so that's why this is delayed.

Chapter Three: Heartache

Frankie awoke from a terrible nightmare and wiped cold sweat off her brow. Panting, she shoved back the sheets and peered into the darkness. Its soothing void steadied her rapid breathing and calmed. There was no way what she dreamt could be real. She was just overworked. Her deluded mind enjoyed playing tricks on her.

There was absolutely no way Mr. Herriman harbored a secret crush on her and had nearly kissed her seven hours ago. It was merely an incredibly bad nightmare and when she pinched herself, not only would it hurt, Mr. Herriman would scold her. Everything would be back to normal.

Swallowing hard and reassuring herself repeatedly this was all a dream, she flopped back onto her pillow and hoped for sleep. Unfortunately, the dream might have ended, but the waking "nightmare" didn't.

* * *

Breakfast was awkward at best. Bloo livened things up by inciting yet another food fight (the fifth this week and it was only Tuesday), but the aftermath blossomed into chaos when he volunteered to help. His paw brushed her hand and he jumped back as if electrocuted. Tormented by feelings he couldn't help, he decided to busy himself chastising Bloo and making _his _life hell instead of focusing on his version. He avoided her for the rest of the day.

Madame Foster, bless her heart, thought they were in the midst of another spat and attempted reconciliation. The imaginary rabbit balked and hopped off before she spotted the heavy blush spreading across his furry cheeks. They'd spent decades together and separating what he wished to keep private became a thankless task. However, he never faltered- he refused to let his creator know his feelings towards Frankie. Visions of her having a heart attack or a stroke haunted him and he'd never felt so utterly alone. In the past, he could at least confide in her. Now he had no one.

Though he contemplated talking to Frankie, risking alone time with her was too dicey. After all, who was to say he might not come onto her again? This time, Bloo might not be around the corner to impede them and he'd force her into a bad situation. He cared too deeply to hurt her like that. Yet when his fists clenched and his body shook irresolutely, he found his glance lingering in her direction. He'd kept this secret for six months- why should her knowledge change things?

"Mr. H, are you okay?" Wilt inquired, frowning. "You've been sorta spacey. And you keep looking at Frankie."

Mr. Herriman started and shifted his head so Wilt wouldn't see the blush creeping across his face. Good Lord, had he been that obvious? It was a small wonder no one hadn't worked it out already. Frankie absently dusted a porcelain vase and his heart beat furiously. He stared until Wilt, clearing his throat, interrupted.

"Mr. H?" he prodded gently. "You never answered me."

The poor frightened rabbit jumped about a foot in the air and turned, recalling his presence abruptly. Frankie too started and stared at the two. All of a sudden, he desired nothing more than to sink into the floor and vanish. Then her eyes would return to her task and he wouldn't feel their gaze searing into him. Before he fully conceptualized the notion, his paws took him to his office and away from Wilt's questions and Frankie.

* * *

Burying his head in his paws, he sighed deeply and clenched his eyes shut. Frankie flitted in his mind and he sincerely wanted a drink. Anything strong would do, regardless of how it affected him. He was beyond caring. He just wanted to stop thinking about her for a minute. Why did she have to be in his thoughts every waking second? Why was he preoccupied with her smile and the way she moved? What the hell was wrong with him?

It was getting worse, too. As the days passed, he realized his feelings for her might be more than a crush and that terrified him. He'd never experienced this in his life and it had to be with the wrong person. Silently, he cursed whoever brought him this fate and hoped they were having a good laugh at his expense. They didn't have to deal with this.

A sharp rapping at the door brought him back to his senses and he blinked, stiffening immediately. Though he hoped it wasn't who he thought it was, the person behind the door opened her mouth and confirmed his suspicions. Heart sinking, he reluctantly answered. After all, he couldn't very well turn his creator away, could he? Maybe he'd luck out and drive her away somehow. Madame Foster had a horrible way of worming the truth out of him.

"Open this door right now, Funny Bunny, or I'll tear it down!"

He afforded himself a weak smile. Other old women intended that as an idle threat- Madame Foster was not one of them. He knew she'd probably unscrew the hinges on his door or otherwise coerce someone to break in. As well as she knew him, he knew her. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach and lingered there. How much worse could this get?

Opening the door and scowling at her creation, she ushered in her granddaughter. Never ask how much worse something could get…because it will inevitably relish its trick.

* * *

Frankie settled in the familiar chair in front of his desk and studied his expression carefully. She could almost hear the hounds on his trail. Part of her longed to comfort him like all the other imaginary friends, but the other, leery of her grandmother's imposing presence, hung back. No whip marks or lacerations marked him, but the torture shone in his eyes. No wonder Madame Foster was so concerned- she would be too, if she hadn't known beforehand.

"Now, Funny Bunny, are you going tell me what's going on? If you have a problem with Frankie, spit it out! I won't abide arguing under my roof!" she snapped and slammed her cane on his desk. Papers went flying and he protested weakly, but his eyes fell upon Frankie and the words died on his lips. All the air had rushed out of his lungs and his heart skipped several beats. They both had to leave…before he lost it…

"Honestly, you're gaping at her like a lovesick puppy!" she continued and the color drained from both their faces. He gripped the corners of his desk tightly and the room spun around him. Frankie sprang to her feet but halted, indecisive and perplexed. What if her grandmother simply jested? Maybe there was nothing to get worked up about.

Clammy and sweating profusely, he cast a meaningful glance at Frankie and hoped telepathy worked better in practice than theory. His legs quivered but like a magnet, his eyes fixated on her. Another "innocent" comment like that and that wobbling drawer might slam. Already he found it increasingly difficult to present a calm façade and he worried she'd see right through it. She knew him too well…

"I think it's time for your medication, Grams!" Frankie said saccharinely and steered her towards the door. Madame Foster protested, fought, and otherwise attacked via her cane, but Frankie, wincing when it struck her shin, shoved her out. Her outraged bellows ripped through him like a double edged sword and he sank low into his cushioned chair. If possible, he felt dirtier than before, like he'd never be clean again.

"Are you all right?" she inquired sharply and pulled the chair beside his. Twitching, he shifted as if to rest against her, and then thought better of it. He didn't know which was worse- withstanding Madame Foster's accusations and ill timed quips or solitude with her granddaughter. Frankie laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and he jumped again and attempted to extract it, but the touch pleased him too much. His heart beat painfully fast.

"I…Miss Frances, we cannot do this," he said finally and gazed at her longingly. "You must leave."

"I'm _worried _about you, you crazy rabbit. And I know Grandma's going to find out sooner or later, because she's anxious too. You're not going to talk to her, but at least open up to me. It's not like you're really a lovesick puppy," Frankie jibed and to her astonishment, what little remaining color drained and he resembled cold porridge. On his shoulder, her hand shifted and squeezed. He gently lifted it off and kissed it.

"You would never love me back, would you?" he whispered and trembled. "Even if I had a human form?"

The question took her aback and she stared, eyes widened in shock. In his paw, she extricated her hand and he blinked furiously. Several horrible moments passed before she understood the full implication of what she'd unwittingly responded. When his eyes met hers again, she saw anguish and misery. Tears brimmed in his eyes but he stabbed at them with a tissue.

"I…I did not think so. I…I believe Master Mac has arrived," he said haltingly and turned his back on her. Frankie opened her mouth to respond, but he shook his head curtly. He didn't want to talk anymore…or ever again. His heart no longer beat in his chest. Instead, a hollow space replaced it and gushed blood. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to lay his head down and sob or scream in agony. He settled for ushering her out of his office and staring at the walls.

* * *

Madame Foster grumbled to herself about rude offspring and secretive imaginary friends. Yet when Mr. Herriman's upset assailed him, she halted in mid-step. Mind numbing agony raced through her. She'd never sensed anything like this and for three minutes, she stared into space like he. Locked in his office, her imaginary friend was crying and she longed to sob too, though she knew not why. Something or someone had wrenched his still beating heart from his chest.

But that type of emotional outburst simply didn't compute. Normally she'd write it off as old age and a snatch of senility, but its strength defied excuses. Shutting her eyes, she rested against a wall and sighed heavily. She _would _pry the truth out of him…because she couldn't stand his pain.

"Funny Bunny, who _did _this to you?"


	4. Unravelling

Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends is not mine, but this plot is. Oh, and to answer any questions, imaginary/creator telepathy is my idea. It appeared in Sunrise, Sunset (which no longer exists on this site...please, someone, give me a copy of it) and it will appear again. I rather like the idea of them being linked.

I'd love to see more Frankie/Herriman stories, though...as well as fanart. Y'all can thank Grand High Idol for her fabolous drawing of them. Go to her bio and check it out on DA.

Chapter Four: Unraveling

"All right, who hurt you? I'm coming in with the cavalry!" Madame Foster cried, flinging his door open. It banged against the wall and Herriman started, blinking furiously.

He choked back the flood, but tears streamed down his face. Such an unguarded moment...he hated having her here seeing this. In her eyes, he was this illustrious figure who never shed a tear and here he was, sobbing because Frankie couldn't return his affections. He was a fool. All his life, he'd avoided emotional displays and when one attacked, he spent more time abating it than the actual outburst. Losing face meant losing everything to him.

Whiskers twitching, he gawked when she strode confidently inside. Frankie's action and the shocked look on her face burned his eyelids like tears. His creator scrutinized him and the belligerence vanished, replaced by concern. She grabbed his hand and hopped nimbly onto the chair Frankie vacated not fifteen minutes previously. A lump formed painfully in his throat and he was at a loss to reply.

"Who was it?" She murmured and sprang into his lap. Oddly, it dislodged the lump. It was ironic- in her youth, she'd run to him for comfort like an overstuffed animal and now, here he was, needing it himself. Instead of his child clutching him, he longed to clutch her and bawl. No...he couldn't succumb to that. He couldn't...but she already saw his tears...what was he supposed to do?

"Eleanor...I mean, Madame Foster, now is not the time…" he protested weakly, realizing his mistake five seconds too late. Eyes widening, she peered him anew and rapped her cane smartly on his mahogany desk. He had the distinct impression she wanted to do the same to his head.

"Since _when _do you call me by my first name? I remember even when I was a child; you'd call me Miss Eleanor instead of Ellie…" She smiled fondly, remembering such an occasion. Mr. Herriman stared, nonplussed. He'd only called her that when she absolutely insisted…or after she fell asleep and no one heard the mistake.

"I apologize, El-, Madame Foster, but I am far too busy to-" he started, but she saw right through him. Like he'd predicted, she rapped him on the head soundly, but not hard enough to really hurt.

"Now I _know _something's wrong. Not only did you do that twice…but do you think I'm blind? You're still crying and you're shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. I might be old, but I'm not senile! Now are you going to tell me what's up or do I have to whack it out of you?" she threatened, brandishing the cane. He eyed it warily- of course, he knew she'd do it, but the question was whether it was worth the abuse. Perhaps she saw the conflict in his eyes, because it lowered and her expression softened.

"What happened?" She touched his face and he bowed his head like a guilty child. He hated this, but he couldn't tell her. Let her do her worst, she wouldn't get a word out of him. This was his problem and his alone. He wished their bond hadn't been this strong, to bring her here in the first place.

Swallowing hard, he turned his head and tried to ignore the weight in his lap. Missing the smirk on his face, he gasped when she wrapped her arms around his midriff. He might be able to ignore her before, but definitely not now, not with her compassionate eyes shimmering. But apprising her was not an option…what was he supposed to do?

"I…I cannot tell you…" he whispered and wrapped his arms around her slight form. How he wished it were Frankie…how was he going to face her? How was he going to face anything?

"I'm not leaving until you spill," she informed him grimly. "So sit tight."

**…**

"Mac!" Bloo exploded and propelled himself at his creator. Spectators in the hall described it as a flying blue blob sailing through the air like a snot projectile. Whatever the case, Mac stumbled backwards slightly and smirked. Once, when he was ten, Bloo had jumped off the balcony and struck Mac with such force, he gave him a concussion. Bloo had been almost as apologetic as Wilt and hovered protectively over his creator.

Mac blushed and hugged Bloo to his chest. Like a cat, Bloo rubbed against him and then coursed his blobby arm along the side of his face. Tension hung thick in the air and Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo approached through an adjacent room. The two noticed only each other.

Bloo raised his head to be level with Mac's lips and the brown haired boy blinked, radiating heat. Time slowed to a crawl and the seconds ticked by. There were three inches between them…two…one…

"Crazy rabbit!" Frankie muttered and bowled creation and creator over. "What the hell am I supposed to say? He sprang this on me out of nowhere!"

Mac and Bloo tumbled to the hard floor and winced at the impact. Bloo landed in Mac's lap, fortunately and hugged his creator's legs. Mac groaned, rubbing his sore rear. What on earth was that all about?

"Oh, sorry, you guys," she said carelessly and then marched off, muttering about diaries and insane imaginary friends. All four present imaginary friends and Mac stared blankly. O-kay…

"Anybody else think something weird's going on here?" Wilt said, frowning. And, not too far away, sobs filled their ears…

**…**

Frankie stormed past Mr. Herriman's office door and halted, hearing her grandmother's voice through the open door. Swallowing hard, she heard the unmistakable sounds of someone stifling sobs. In five seconds, her chest constricted and she bit her lip. The only possible creature crying was Mr. Herriman and guilt overwhelmed her. She'd broken his heart, hadn't she? But she hadn't meant to…

Who would have guessed he felt that deeply for her? But how could he expect her to reciprocate on such little notice? She hadn't told him no…but she hadn't said yes, either. She'd pulled her hand away, which to him must have meant there was no chance. But she hadn't meant to say that…she had no idea what she intended to communicate…

It wasn't that he was that bad, even when he grated her nerves. He was just doing his job and ensuring Foster's ran properly. Half of the things she did if she didn't, no one would. And he never worked her until she collapsed.

"Why can't you tell me?" her grandmother murmured and it carried into the hall. Frankie hugged her arms to her chest and listened intently. Guilt bore down on her like a hundred point weight. He couldn't tell her because he was afraid of hurting her…and he couldn't talk to Frankie because she avoided him…he was out of options…she'd driven a wedge between them…

"Is it about Frankie?" she continued and Frankie gasped audibly. She clasped a hand to her mouth in shock, but it was too late. Sounds of a cane scrambling across the floor accompanied her grandmother at the door. However, by the time she reached it, Frankie was long gone. Sneakers whipped around the corner and Frankie hurriedly buried herself into a thankless task. So now she had two people to avoid, lovely.

**…**

"So Frankie's pissed and Mr. Herriman's locked himself in his office? Suspiiiiiiiicious," Bloo said, bouncing onto Mac's neck. Coco watched them amusedly, noting that he wouldn't stop touching his creator. Mac had only been here twenty minutes and Bloo couldn't keep his hands off him. She chuckled.

Wilt watched too, but he frowned. Sure, Bloo was hyperactive, but it was like he was marking Mac as his property. It was unsettling to say the least. Maybe when they separated, he'd ask him about it. And then there was that almost kiss…

"Si and Herriman been acting weird 'round Frankie," Eduardo asserted. "Like he no want to be near her."

"So Frankie tried to do Herriman in with a knife in the parlor…interesting…" Bloo said and grinned. "All we have to do is find the bloody knife…"

"I _don't _think she tried to kill him, Bloo," Mac said stoutly and glared down at his creation. Bloo, unfazed, continued his insane theory. He proceeded to explain how everything, including Herriman's crying, fit in.

"I bet when I started that food fight-"

"You started a food fight?" Mac interrupted, scowling. "Bloo, if you keep this up, you're going to get thrown out. That's the fifth one this week."

"I know, I know," Bloo said, waving him off. It wasn't important how many times he'd been punished or how severely. After all, these were just innocent pranks. Bloo never intentionally hurt anyone.

"You know? Where will you live?" Mac snapped, temper getting the better of him.

"I was _saying_," Bloo interrupted, speaking over him, "before I was rudely interrupted-"

"Mac's right," Wilt cut in and scowled. "Mr. Herriman's going to get sick of you if you don't stop soon."

Coco added a comment and Eduardo nodded. Bloo folded his arms across his chest and reclined against Mac; how dare they interrupt his far fetched theory with logic. What was wrong with them? Whatever he had to say was far better than their reminders of the precariously thin ice he skated on. _Mac's comfortable…_

"I get I'm in trouble! Now let's go to the parlor and look for the knife," Bloo snapped and Mac folded his arms over his imaginary friend. A smile broke across his face and he snuggled closer, sighing deeply. He could stay here forever.

"There _is _no knife, Bloo, because she didn't try to kill him. He's not crying because she stabbed him. Your imagination's running away with you again," Mac replied and blushed when Bloo kissed his hand. Wilt's eye widened and Eduardo gawked. Both glanced at Coco, trilling happily.

"The truth is out there and I'll find it or my name isn't Blooregard Q. Kazoo! Frankie Foster, we have you for attempted homicide number one!"

Shaking their heads, the other three dispersed, leaving Mac prey to Bloo's ravings. However, when he dropped him, he shut up quickly.

**…**

Madame Foster frowned and shut the door reluctantly. Sooner or later, she'd have to have a talk with the two again, though perhaps later would be best, considering the reactions. Herriman resembled a bed sheet and his fingers gripped the desk. He didn't have to ask to know who had spurted away like she had wings on her feet. He felt drained, too weak to protest or fight his creator anymore. He just wanted this to be over.

"Frankie…" he muttered and sighed heavily. She turned in his direction with a curious expression.

"Ha, caught you again! But seriously…this thing with Frankie isn't a fight, is it?"

Exhausted, he merely shook his head and with remarkable speed, she darted to his side. One hand stroked his side and he enveloped her again, rocking her gently back and forth. Completely unnerved, she glanced up at him and bit her lip contemplatively. Her imaginary friend gazed back at her and sighed. He looked like a woebegone child.

"But why else would you be…" her voice trailed off and she stared, disbelieving. Removing her arms, she hopped off and stared at him like she'd never seen him before. The color returned in full swing, transforming him into a ripe tomato. By the look on her face, she'd put two and two together.

"No…" they both breathed in unison and she unconsciously retreated a few paces. Herriman's heart pounded in his chest once again (at this rate, he'd have a heart attack).

His creator trembled and then, with an expression like someone died, she said, "You're in love with Frankie, aren't you?"

**…**


	5. Discovery

Chapter Five: Discovery

Several terse months passed after Frankie and Madame Foster discovered Herriman's secret and the poor imaginary rabbit bucked under pressure. Three quarters of his time was spent barricaded in his office, now coded to prevent any stealthy entrances. He periodically reappeared during meals and many murmured about his drooping whiskers and haggardness. Madame Foster attempted conversation to no avail. He blocked anything but business.

That, unfortunately, extended to her granddaughter and his unrequited love. If the others saw Herriman scarcely at meals, she never had that privilege. The few times she spotted him; he hopped away swiftly and refused to speak. Once, he left her standing before the open kitchen door.

Frankie sighed and raised her knuckles to knock on his office door. This was her fault entirely and she pitied him, but, on the other hand, she feared that day long ago and his woven spell. Unfortunately, her grandmother's words and her own guilt overwhelmed her. She was the only one who could break him free and she knew how deeply concerned Madame Foster was.

"State your business. If it is improper, please go elsewhere. I am in no mood for trivial matters," his voice played, cold and formal.

_It shouldn't irk me he's clandestine again, but it does. It shouldn't tear me apart to realize I've done all this to him, but if I didn't, I don't think I'd be human. He's so miserable and it's all my fault… _

"Mr. H, it's me…" she said and when there was no response, she whispered her name. The doors creaked open slowly and she was reminded of visiting the wizard of Oz, only instead of seeing a façade, she saw the real thing first. A morose rabbit slumped over his desk; papers piled up, some long forgotten. In fact, his normally immaculate office had dirt and grime everywhere. She swallowed the lump in her throat and sat before his desk.

On the far corner of his desk, clearly a new addition, sat a picture of her, Mac, Bloo, and the rest. Herriman slumped on the other side of the frame and refused to touch Coco, licking the umbrella. She smiled weakly; it must be the only picture he had of her he liked. Unlike everything else, it remained dirt free.

"Miss Frances, there is no need for you to be here. It is not Saturday and it is far too late for any adoptions. If you are finished wasting my valuable time-" he began, clearing his throat and shuffling a stack of papers closest to him. Frankie rose, fire burning in her eyes. For some odd reason, seeing him behave like he had all her life irritated the hell out of her. Maybe because she knew now he was holding everything back. Maybe because she knew where the blame solely belonged and she couldn't take it anymore.

"Knock it off, would you? You're not fooling anyone! Grandma's worried sick about you!" Frankie retorted and folded her arms across her chest. He regarded her coolly, like one might observe a particularly boring insect. Biting back a snarl, she strode to his side. If she had to slap some sense into him, then she would.

"And what of you? Are you concerned at all, Frankie?" he whispered. "Or are you here to do my creator's bidding? Or because you feel guilty?"

She was tempted to look away, but couldn't. He'd hit the nail on the head. But was that the only reason she was here? Were there reasons she wasn't acknowledging?

"I…" she murmured, unclear where she was going. Mr. Herriman nodded curtly and gestured her back to her seat. He refrained from touching her.

"You must not feel guilty. This is not your fault. It is mine for being foolhardy. Now, will you leave?" he pleaded. "I have work to do."

"Work that's piled up on your desk? I'm the only person you've seen in weeks other than adopters and you're not shoving me out. You're also not shouldering the blame. Nice try," she snapped and stubbornly dragged the chair to his side. His eyes widened, probably because he hadn't considered the option she wouldn't listen. Slamming the chair down, their fingertips brushed and he exhaled sharply.

"Frankie…you cannot remain here…I have work…" he protested weakly. "You have verified I am all right-"

"You're _not _all right! You're avoiding everyone and blaming yourself for everything! You won't even listen to your creator. You keep running away from the problem…and I refuse to leave. What are you going to do about that? Fire me? Shove me out of your office? I'll come back. I'm not going anywhere, _period_."

Mr. Herriman blinked wearily and smiled weakly. He should have figured Frankie would never retreat like he did. It was one of her traits he admired. She was upfront, whereas he shunted his feelings to the side until they festered. Unable to express himself, he simply hoped they'd go away. If anything, they'd intensified painfully and being alone with her made him want to act upon them badly. She had to leave.

"Frankie, you do not understand. When I see you, I want what I can never have. I fear I will lose control. You are far too open- being around you would destroy me," he whispered and turned away from her. Charily, aware all encounters with him began this way, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He started and then lowered her hand to his lips to kiss it. Then, he pressed his furry face against her arm.

Shivering but at a loss why, she wrapped her other arm around his neck and leaned against him. Mr. Herriman sighed happily and clung to her. Warmth flooded through him and he forgot why she was here in the first place. Even though he was covered in fur, she was soft to him and he brushed his cheek against her arm. Frankie gasped and started to retreat, then thought better of it. She had to weather this storm for both their sakes.

"I repulse you that much?" he whispered and she sighed, trying to figure out how to word her response without further damaging his apparently fragile ego. The hand on his shoulder stroked his fur. So warm and soft…she lost herself.

Stroking his fur intrinsically soothed her in an impossible to explain way. His breaths came in shallow gasps, but he never protested. No thoughts flitted through her mind, nothing at all. There was just his gray white fur and its exquisiteness against her palm. She could do this forever.

"Miss Frances? Frankie?" he interrupted. "Is there any reason you feel you must pet me?"

Frankie blinked and glanced at the clock. Five minutes had passed and he'd let her get away with it. Blushing heavily, she blinked again at the word "pet". She'd never entirely considered Herriman an animal. Sure, she might have ranted about him being a "crazy rabbit", but he was far too civilized to be an animal, albeit an imaginary one. He was an incredibly soft, furry person…with rabbit ears and a fluffy tail. Yes, she confused herself too.

"I…sorry, Mr. H…" she said sheepishly, but when she lifted her hand, he clasped it. Gingerly, he extracted his paw from his glove and placed it atop. Breathless, Frankie stared blankly. Other than bathing, he never removed those. He preferred not to soil himself with the common folk. The last time they'd been alone, he'd done this too. Blood rushed to her face- why was it when he acted affectionately, she had to react strongly? Maybe because otherwise, he was a closed book.

"Frankie…" he murmured and kissed her hand. Spellbound, she stood flabbergasted as the chair swung around and she landed in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and cradled her to his chest. Frankie hadn't drawn a breath for the past thirty seconds.

Distantly, the thought occurred to her that this was supposed to be a nice, civil conversation and somehow, inexplicably, she'd ended up here. But she wasn't displeased at all. A grin spread across her face and she rested comfortably against him. She wasn't sure if she thought he was a big, fluffy stuffed animal or just incredibly soft. He cupped her chin in his palm and gently tilted it in his direction.

Dizzy, she shut her eyes and shivered pleasantly. The instant his lips brushed hers, there was a sharp rap on the door and he accidentally dropped her. Frankie released her held breath explosively and stared. Madame Foster, mouth agape, scrutinized her granddaughter and imaginary friend and she was _not _happy.

**…**

"Maaaac," Bloo called, grinning devilishly. His creator peeked through a half open eyelid and then shut it again. The two lay alone in his room since everyone else had found somewhere else to be. Besides, they were no fools. They knew something more than friendship developed between the two, even if Bloo and Mac refused to acknowledge it.

Over the last two months, odd affectionate displays cropped up everywhere. Bloo frequently greeted his creator with not only a flying hug, but a peck on the hands and, once, on the cheek. He found excuses to linger near by and touch him. When they watched TV, for example, he plopped into Mac's lap and curled up. He was like a cat, only this cat had a crush.

When asked, Bloo provided a standard excuse, only they fell pitifully flat. The truth was he enjoyed Mac's company a little too much. He tried to follow him home only to be kicked sky high by Terrence. Bruises on his stomach disappeared two days later; the only thing hurt after that was his pride.

"I'm tired, Bloo," he moaned and rolled over. Bloo scowled and hopped, pushing against his chest. The only thing this accomplished was dropping his arm around him. Bloo halted, temporarily too stunned to complain. He glanced up at his creator and another mischievous idea struck.

Licking his lips, he leaned on his stubby blobby arms and kissed him. Mac froze and stopped breathing for so long, Bloo panicked and started apologizing. Slowly, his eyes opened and he stared blankly at his creation. Five minutes passed (Bloo apologized more in that time than Wilt had in the past month) and the truth dawned slowly on him that Mac wasn't suffering a heart attack.

To his surprise (and irritation), the brown haired boy smiled and snuggled closer. His lips brushed Bloo's and he wrapped his arms around him. Bloo, befuddled, lost track of whatever he wanted to snap. The heat from his body and his proximity silenced him.

"I love you too," he whispered and cradled him. "But lemme sleep."

Bloo, flushed, merely nodded and shut his own eyes. He didn't want to leave his arms…ever.

**…**


	6. Under Pressure

**I ended up rewriting the chapter…or, rather, using this version instead of the one that's there. It might be a lot longer, but it's more complete. **

Chapter Six: Under Pressure

In her life she'd tolerated a great many things and on general principle she considered herself open minded. Patience was a must living in Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. She'd seen odd pairings and unusual relationships but never blinked. She'd chuckled at persnickety friends and their peculiar obsessions. She'd had a peculiar husband herself to understand the world she immersed herself in habitually. If she comprehended and accepted so much, why was the thought of her imaginary friend and her granddaughter involved romantically unnerving? Why couldn't she laugh it off like seeing Wilt and Eduardo sitting too close or other friends getting together?

Mr. Herriman's hopping steps sounded behind her but she ignored him. Though he fumbled to explain himself adequately, she disregarded it. Hurt, dismay, and confusion trickled towards her through her link and she swallowed hard. How could she explain to him why seeing Frankie on his lap and their lips together disturbed her when she was at a loss? How could she explain to him that the only person/creature he'd ever fallen in love with she disapproved of?

Frankie was a sweet, charming girl and she supported any person she selected, but therein lay the problem. Mr. Herriman was an imaginary friend to start and, second but far more important, he was _her _imaginary friend. Perhaps she'd gotten so used to the notion he never relaxed that the concept of love never entered her mind. Or maybe because in her heart of hearts, she was a little jealous.

_No, _she thought, shaking her head, _it's not that. I want to protect them and they're both too close to me. I would never want my precious Funny Bunny hurt, especially not by my granddaughter. I'd have no idea what to do._

"Madame Foster?" Mr. Herriman called softly, jarring her from any further mental dissertation. His black eyes were somber and reflective; the concern she'd felt earlier, leading her to direct Frankie in his office despite what she already knew, panged again. If she did prevent his pursuit of Frankie, he'd be miserable, more so than he already was. She didn't know which was worse- seeing his misery without her or taking the chance he might be more miserable with her.

"I should have known better than to send her in there," she snapped and his ears drooped. That gnawing tore at her and made her furious for no reason. _Was _it merely anxiety for the two? Was it envy? Was it something else entirely? Why should she deprive him of the thing he desired badly when he'd obliged her time and time again?

"This is my fault," he murmured and his sorrow assailed her like a vicious uppercut. "I should not have touched her. I am too smitten with her to properly act. If I were you, Madame, I would send me away until this passes."

Irritation flashed and she bit back an impatient growl. "Love isn't something you go to the doctor and get antibiotics for!"

Sneakers squeaked behind them and the third player entered the arena. Frankie hung back, listening intently. She frowned and watched a peculiar light strike his face. It was like seeing a child at Christmas receive their promised present. No such expression lit Frankie's face, but Herriman hovered, hopeful. When she glanced back at him, her heart sank. He was going to have his heart broken.

"I-I was merely suggesting you send me away until I can perform my duties satisfactorily…or perhaps some other punishment would be in order. Whatever you see fit, I will of course second whole heartedly."

Over her shoulder, she felt Frankie stare open mouthed at him. What he suggested was self exile and ludicrous. Unfortunately, part of her agreed with him. Part of her wanted him to abandon his crush…but it wasn't a crush anymore. It wasn't transitory and that frightened them both. His feelings weren't going to vanish overnight.

"You really think something's wrong with you, don't you?" she replied, incredulous. "Didn't it ever occur to you there's more to life than paperwork and filing?"

Herriman dropped his gaze and eyed the tiles. His voice was dull and lifeless when he replied and Frankie stepped a few paces closer. Even if she didn't return his affections, she definitely cared deeply for him. That brought a brief smile to her face.

"That is my function here…this _thing _is a distraction…" he murmured. Frankie shook her head at him and stepped closer still. She now stood directly behind him and his hands ached to touch her. Madame Foster caught the desire in his eyes and unconsciously retreated.

"Love isn't a distraction, Mr. H," Frankie interrupted. "And she's not going to replace you- you're not a machine."

"But…" he whispered, barely audible, "I am disturbing Madame Foster and unsettling you. I cannot concentrate on required papers because you keep drifting across my mind. Surely there are better candidates for the jobs…I have become obsolete."

Frankie sighed and hugged him. Mr. Herriman clung to her and inhaled her scent, lilacs and peanut butter from lunch. Already his defenses weakened and the familiar desires arose. Why couldn't he get a hold of himself? What was it about her that reduced him to this?

"You're _not _obsolete; you're _not _unsettling me…"

But she halted; certain he would catch her in the midst of a lie. Initially, she had been rather unnerved by his affections, but lately her concern outweighed anything else. She swallowed hard and glanced at her grandmother for guidance. She'd created him; surely she knew what to say. However, she seemed just as bewildered and perplexed as she.

Softly, succinctly, Madame Foster eyed the two and said, "You are not going to be replaced, Mr. Herriman, but I do not approve."

Mr. Herriman, crushed, sagged against her. All the fight evaporated, replaced by weary resignation. Gently, he disentangled himself from her and hopped away wordlessly. Madame Foster and Frankie watched him go, a peculiar mix of pity and empathy on their faces.

**…**

Herriman tossed attire, quills, and ink haphazardly into a suitcase. Of course, haphazardly for him meant a centimeter away from the sides. He sighed, aware the contents of his life fit well inside a single small case. What a dismal existence.

Fingers closed upon a picture and he halted, examining it at length. Three days before Frankie discovered his horrible secret, already a lifetime ago; they'd posed in front of Foster's. This particular shot he'd insisted upon and, after much strife, she'd relented. The sunlight had lit up her flaming red hair and cast a radiant halo around her oval face. She'd laughed when Mac had commented she looked heavenly, but he agreed. She _was _an angel- and he should not ruin her happiness by staying here.

A knock on the door tapered his thoughts and he jerked, guiltily tucking the photo beside a bowtie. Three knocks later and he'd safely stored the case until later. He wanted no one to stop him; any discoveries now would prove disastrous. No matter _who _it was, especially Frankie. He might be inclined to blurt it out if only to tell her goodbye.

"Took you long enough to reach the door, Funny Bunny," Madame Foster said lightly and breezed past him into his office. He shut the door unceremoniously and glanced inauspiciously at the closed closet door. If Madame Foster noticed this, she said nothing. Instead, she hopped into a seat in front of his desk and waited for him to sit in his customary chair. That he did, wondering why she would be so, well, normal, after discovering his secret and her recent behavior. It made no sense to him.

"Madame Foster-" he began, glancing again at the closet. This time her eyes followed his and he swore she was scanning his mind for any unusual plans. He squirmed, but was unable to stop fixating on the closet and its contents. He hated anxiety and uncertainty, especially around his creator and Frankie. Why must everything change?

"I wish to clarify something I said before. I love you, Funny Bunny, but I don't want you to see you hurt...or Frankie. That is why I must ask you to avoid spending time alone with her unless absolutely necessary."

Nodding weakly, he tuned out her next few words. It was uncharacteristic of him to daydream, but his mind kept wandering to where on earth he could vanish to without being noticed. Who would put him up, an imaginary rabbit? What if someone tried to adopt him? Would they bring him back to Foster's for the paperwork? What if someone stopped him from running away in the first place or he was stopped before he got to his destination? What _was _his destination, anyway?

"Please don't run away," she finished and he blinked, dragged out of his pensive mood. She winked knowingly and his stomach squirmed, but he remained resolute. Despite the guilt, he knew this was a better solution than staying here with Frankie and his desire. He was too weak to resist her charms.

Bowing her out, he shut the door before she realized he'd never given her his word.

**…**

The corridors were quiet save the hops of a large imaginary rabbit traversing the halls as quietly as a mouse. He halted at Madame Foster's door, slipped inside, left a note on her pillow telling her not to worry but nothing specific, and then hopped out again. Unfortunately, the note increased the metaphysical burden on his heart. He told her not to worry, but she'd do the opposite. She'd go insane because he'd found a way to block her from feeling him by conjuring a mental wall- he had to ensure he wouldn't be dragged back here. At least she'd know he was alive.

Heart heavy, he hopped down the hall to Frankie's door and crept inside. The moonlight cast a pale silver glow on her face and stole his breath. She lay splayed out on the bed; her silken red hair framed her head like a halo. He stood in the doorway and stared, unable to move or draw a breath. She was a goddess and what was he but a pauper? He had nothing to offer her.

Like a burglar, he tiptoed across her room and stood by her bed. Removing his glove, he stroked her face and she shifted, smiling dreamily. What did she dream? He wondered what made her smile and if he could ever be the one to bring a smile to her face. Shaking his head, he cleared his thoughts. No time.

The clock on the bureau to their left displayed a prominent 1:24 a.m. and he exhaled sharply. Any minute she might rouse and discover him here. Worse yet, Madame Foster might find him here. He was wasting time saying his goodbye when he hadn't done the most important thing anymore. He simply couldn't bear to part with his beloved Frankie.

But he knew this was necessary. She could not afford to have someone like him around. She deserved the best things and a human to give them to her, not an imaginary friend. Depressing though it was, he could never satisfy her like another. Any other belief was a blatant lie.

Leaning over her gorgeous frame, he brushed his whiskers across her cheek and squeezed her right hand. Frankie mumbled, but nothing distinguishable. She shifted, rolling over and away from him. Oh, how he would miss seeing her.

"I love you, Frankie Foster…and that is why I cannot stay here."

**…**

They welcomed him openly, but he caught the reservation in their eyes. No sooner had he settled in than another catastrophe arose and he realized the precariousness of his situation. He sighed, but refused to leave. Surely things could get better…he hoped.

**…**

Frankie mumbled, rolled over, and smiled serenely. When she awoke in the morning to the chaos, she would not remember the dream with the whiskery kiss and those delightful three words.

**…**

The ruckus outside woke the dead, including those who slept like them. Frankie rubbed her eyes and blinked, wondering how on earth she managed to sleep through it. Imaginary friends bustled and shouted raucously. Bleary eyed, she wondered where Herriman was to stop this. Surely he'd never let the decibel level rise alarmingly.

Tossing on a shirt carelessly and stuffing her feet into pink Blossom slippers, she shuffled towards the door and opened it. Imaginary friends swept past her and pressed her against the wall. Oh, dear, this was a madhouse. What on earth had happened? And why did she have a feeling Bloo and Herriman were involved? _It'd better not be that blue blob…he's lucky we like his creator…_

Charily, easing her way via ebbs in the idea current, she reached a notice tacked on the board at the end of the hall. Naturally, she recognized Herriman's flowing script and swallowed hard once she finished. The bottom of her stomach fell out, replaced by emptiness. Many a time she'd wished he'd simply disappear, but now that he had, guilt wracked her. He hadn't left on vacation- he'd left to get away from her.

"We will _rule _Foster's!" Bloo cackled, either on a power high, adrenaline kick, or a sugar rush. She shoved him to the side and sought out her grandmother. Later, when she'd calmed herself, she'd deal with the insurgency. Right now, she hadn't the patience to smother "la resistance".

Madame Foster, normally placid and cheerful, stared stoically ahead like one of her busts. Though she too occasionally received rough treatment by friends who quickly apologized, she hardly blinked. No one had apparently considered the damage Herriman's absence inflicted on Madame Foster. Perhaps they were too busy celebrating a supposed lifting of rules. Frankie didn't find this joyous at all.

"He ran away…" she whispered brokenly and led her away from the hubbub. They descended a series of stairs and then headed into her hidden bedroom. At least here, their voices faded into nothingness.

Opening her mouth, an apology sprang to mind, but the older woman shook her head. Years she denied poured down and aged her tremendously overnight. Maybe Mr. Herriman was the one thing keeping her young. She sighed, hoping that wasn't the case. How could he abandon his creator and Foster's like this? How could he turn his back on everyone? Did he really think he had no other choice?

"The note he left me indicates we hire permanent replacements," she whispered. "I tried to contact him or at least grope for his feelings in the dark, but he's blocked me."

"He ran away because he's in love with me," Frankie whispered, shutting her eyes and burying her head in her hands. What a mess. What were they supposed to do now? Did he expect his absence would mean nothing to them? Were they supposed to move on without him?

"Don't worry, dearie. He'll come to his senses and walk in here, wondering why we're just standing around instead of doing work," she assured her, but her words were empty. Silence descended upon the little room and they sat there together, stunned and awestruck by their loss.

**…**

Two months passed, then three. Life settled in a pattern in Foster's; Frankie's temper frayed and broke at the slightest strain, Madame Foster spent most of her time in her room trying to break his block, and the intelligent imaginary friends shied from the twenty two year old. Already she'd given vicious tongue lashings to her dearest friends here through no fault of theirs and they were in no mood to receive the same. She wished she could feel less exhausted and more apologetic.

Her normal duties were compounded by the inadequacy of Herriman's replacements. Usually, she had to clean the toilets, scrub the floors, and prepare the meals, but now she had to double and triple check their numbers and paperwork. One guy had already tried to swindle Foster's out of thousands and then made a pass at Frankie. Wilt had to physically hoist her out of the room and force her to breathe through a paper bag until she was ready to confront him without tearing an appendage off.

On top of _that _were Bloo's continuous attempts to undermine her newfound authority. He really thought he'd be better off running Foster's and twice she'd seriously contemplated shoving the broken pieces of a broom handle down his throat. The rallied imaginary friends stared in disbelief as she hissed a threat at him and then stomped off before she acted upon it.

Then there were the sleepless nights punctuated by nightmares of Herriman bleeding, wounded, or, worse yet, in Faust's Residence of Delinquent Friends. That place was a living nightmare and no amount of government propaganda could bring her three hundred feet within its boundaries. She shuddered and wiped the cold sweat off her face, but her dreams remained morbid and unsettling. If she got four hours of sleep a night, she was lucky.

Herriman haunted her when she awoke, blinking confusedly. Strong furry arms rocked her back and forth after a particularly terrifying nightmare and his whiskers touched the top of her head. Yet when she craned her neck for a second look, he was gone, a passing phantom in the night.

Today she leaned heavily against the cheap plastic mop from Dollar Tree because she'd destroyed the last three when her temper got the better of her. Bloo had witnessed her snap one and finally gave up his aspiration; she'd brandished it perilously close to his eyes. That and the tongue lashings he'd received subsequently led him to avoid her like everyone else. Once, she might have cared about what she was becoming, but now, she just wanted him the hell out of her line of sight. He and Mac were never anywhere near her anymore.

Glancing at the clock, she noted idly that Mac was late today. Bloo lingered by a doorway and darted out to check the time. He was too petrified of her to ask where she thought he was. Instead, he gulped and dove inside where it was safe. Her green eyes tracked and rooted him to the spot.

Mac arrived a half an hour late and tugged dispiritedly on a large backpack. He pushed the doors open and halted, staring at her. His eyes swept the bags under her eyes and her drooping eyelids. Normally, she managed to scurry before direct scrutiny. Wilt had commented on her state and she lashed out so cruelly, he'd eluded her for a week. She'd apologized later, but it bothered her nonetheless. She couldn't let the creatures in who cared the most.

"Hi, Frankie," Mac greeted shyly. "How are you?"

"_Fine_," she spat. "Peachy keen. How do you _think _I am?"

The acidity in her voice drove Mac back a few paces, but he refused to be intimidated. He knew Frankie too well to let her pretend nothing was wrong. Bloo observed, his blobby arms clutching the doorframe for dear life. Until the coast was clear, he wasn't budging.

"Miserable since Mr. Herriman left," he replied calmly, but his knees knocked together. He was the voice of reason among raving lunatics, but he couldn't deny his fear. Frankie was a force to be reckoned with if Bloo's reports were anything to go by. Bloo wordlessly shook his head and mouthed at him to stop.

"Damn right…" she murmured and skidded on the cleaned floor. Mac's eyes widened and he abandoned his homework to hover nearby in case she indeed slipped. Her sneakers struggled for purchase on the tiles, but, after an agonizing moment, she leaned against the wall.

"I know where he is."

Her eyes widened and she nearly slipped again rising to her feet. Eduardo, entering the staircase through an adjacent hallway, observed worriedly. The other friends cared, but they kept their concern at a distance lest she snap at them. Mac offered him a weak smile he did not return.

"Where?" she breathed.

"I saw him in the middle of a fight outside. He was trying to keep one imaginary friend from stabbing an orderly…" his voice trailed into nothing and Frankie swallowed hard. There was only one place she knew of where such a situation might arise and not merit police attention. It was pure bad luck Mac lived closer to there than Foster's and she knew he deliberately took the long way around to avoid passing it. She didn't blame him- she hated driving by.

Now, however, it looked like her next destination was Faust's Residence for Delinquent Friends. Yay.


	7. Here or There

Chapter Seven: Here or There

Skulking, intimidating gargoyles glared down the highest spiraling tower and Frankie shivered, rubbing her goose pimpled arms. Faust's Residence for Delinquent Friends was about as anti Foster's as one could get. Even the moods instilled were different. If she hadn't a mission here, she might turn tail and run. No sane person stayed here too long.

Chipped black paint adorned the brick face and the unpleasant trail of a red liquid she hoped wasn't blood. Instead of curtains, bars impeded the windows and occasionally a friend would slam against the metal and scream down. A great deal of the residents were utterly insane. They were not fit for society, let alone an innocent child. Foster's never saw these misfits and with good reason. The last time they had, an arsonist imaginary friend torched Mr. Herriman's office.

That brought her back to her mission. Why on earth would he want to stay _here_? Sure, they always needed help, but that was because no one in their right mind stayed too long. Friends screamed murderous intent at their creators, some were handy with butcher knives, and many were created solely for destruction. Some secretaries never walked out…they were _carried _out in body bags.

No grass marked the front yard of Faust's, only cold asphalt. The whole place resembled a prison for the insane. No, not an asylum, because asylums offered hope. This offered nothing.

Three stories of pure trepidation awaited her; a sultry chill wind rattled the broken exposed trinkets and gripped her very soul. Swallowing hard, she vowed to drag the imaginary rabbit out, kicking and screaming, shove him in the car, and drive off, never looking back. Faust's was on the other side of town, actually closer to Mac's house than Foster's, but its whole visage repelled common visitors. It was kept open thanks to state grants. Ideas could be more dangerous than their creators.

Shoving her hands in her green jacket, she trotted up the winding driveway. Cameras recorded her every movement and announced her arrival long before she reached the iron gates. They opened slowly, creaking on their hinges. It only added to the effect; she felt like a little kid and longed to scream, "I wanna go _home_!"

A black steel door awaited her at the end of the long walk and through a narrow slit, someone's cold cobalt eyes scrutinized her. Her brain wanted to tear off, but her body wouldn't listen. It stood stock still and let this creature scan her like a computer. Whatever it saw, however, it never said. Instead, it inquired stoically what her business was.

"I-I'm here to see Mr. Herriman," she squeaked, hugging her arms to her chest. The slit closed and the door crept open wide enough to admit her. Inside, the decorations made her stomach squirm and induced another shiver. What on earth would drive him to work here? Was he completely insane? She didn't want to look at this place, much less stay here longer than absolutely necessary.

A putrid aroma, excrement, urine, and medication assaulted her nostrils and she gagged. The orderly in front of her smirked, her white apron already covered in grisly streaks of either wine…or something she'd rather not think about. A crow imaginary friend shrieked, digging its claws into a nearby human's hair and the human stood patiently, blood trickling down their cheeks but doing nothing. She waited until the bird was done before shooting it with a tranquilizer dart. Frankie's knees buckled.

White cinderblock was everywhere she turned and she had the feeling other than the orderlies, she was the cleanest creature to enter this place. Once again, she wondered how on earth Herriman could stand to be here for a second, much less three months. Normally, he'd be running in the opposite direction. He hardly tolerated the mentally ill (only Coco) and this place, if she knew him as well as she thought she did, would send him into shivers rivaling hers. He had to want out.

"H-how?" she stammered, but the orderly, a stocky brunette merely shook her head and led her away.

**…**

In the far back, through a grisly scene involving two imaginary friends, a human, and a switchblade, she led her to Herriman's office and then spurted away before Frankie opened her mouth. A brass knocker she lifted and a slit opened. A monocle eye gazed at her and an audible gasp escaped. The door swung promptly swung open and strong furry arms snatched her inside. Once she was completely within the confines, he double locked the door. Frankie, relieved to be with someone she knew and trusted, relaxed slightly. At least the door shut out the unpleasantness outside.

"How can you stand it here? It's so creepy," she whispered and he released her. Blinking in confusion, she glanced back at him, settling in a hard blue plastic chair. Only one picture lay on his desk, otherwise, the room was dank and empty. A single lightbulb flickered over their heads and sent his face into shadows. However, it illuminated the bags under his eyes and his haggardness. She wasn't the only one who hadn't slept well in days.

"Miss Frances, you have no business here. I must insist you leave," he demanded, and, then, under his breath, "before you get hurt."

"_You _shouldn't be here either!" she retorted, loath to sit down in the grimy chair beside his desk. Her eyes darted to the picture and before he could stop her, she stared at it. The last and only good picture of her was this one, taken a week before she left. She glanced at it and then him, sinking low into his chair. Gently, she placed it back down and contemplated what she might say. It suddenly occurred to her ranting might not be the best approach.

"Don't you have a picture of Grandma?" she inquired lightly and hesitantly gathered her skirt to sit. Well, she could always wash it. Nonetheless, there were things here that gave her the impression no matter how hard she scrubbed, she might never be clean.

"I could not bring a portrait of her. I had one, but an…unscrupulous imaginary friend desiccated it. There is nothing left of the canvas, let alone the oils. I forgot to put away your picture lest another unwarranted attack leave me devoid of decorations." He sighed and drummed his fingers on the desk. She had the feeling he was torn between desiring her company and thus protecting her from the denizens outside and shoving her away before she got too far. His indecision permitted her to stay. She only hoped it would continue to serve her well.

It was on the tip of her tongue to accuse him of sneaking into the house when they were asleep, but she bided her tongue. "_Where _did you get these pictures, Mr. H?"

Squirming, he glanced at the metal table instead of her. His fingers brushed the picture when she laid it back down and caressed her cheekbones. An unknown voice in her head she'd never acknowledged before whispered she ought to let him do that to her. Her stomach erupted into butterflies and she nervously glanced away, willing the thoughts to vanish. Unfortunately, with their silence came an image of Herriman as a human and her cheeks burned; she found him reasonably attractive. Stupid voice, stupid images…

"I…"

"You've been visiting us in our sleep, haven't you?" she pressed lightly and he hung his head. "You're the burglar Bloo keeps ranting about. How long have you been doing this?"

To his surprise, she didn't sound angry at all. Instead, she was calm, patient, and understanding. Yet since he anticipated her fury, her words caught him off guard and guilt swept him. Visiting Foster's at night was his way of ensuring it was the way he'd left it. Of course, by now he knew the truth of the matter and his guilt tripled. His beloved Frankie was falling to pieces under the strain, but could he return? Could he restrain himself? Or was he doomed to chase her?

"Miss Frances, Frankie…I'm so sorry," he whispered and bit his lip. "I did not think you would suffer in my absence."

She sighed heavily and watched him closely. This job was wearing him down faster than anything at Foster's and he'd be burned out soon. Pityingly, she leaned across the table and seized his paw. He started but reluctantly let her hold it. The butterflies in her stomach careened around and knocked into each other.

"Come back to us," she begged. "We need you."

Astonishingly, he extracted his paw from her grip and shook his head. What followed stunned her into silence and immobility. Glancing at once through the barred windows at his view of the dirt (they were below ground); he phrased his next sentence delicately but poignantly. Frankie could only gape.

"I cannot. Faust's needs me more…"

"_What_? You're trying to avoid Foster's because you think you can't control yourself around me, but if you tried instead of giving up-"

"Madame Foster told me she wished I would avoid your company-"

"She didn't mean she wanted you to run away! We miss you, we need you, and…we care about you. You can't stay here, Mr. H. If an imaginary friend doesn't attack you in the night, you'll collapse from sheer exhaustion.

"I know you're afraid of being alone with me…but we're alone now and you haven't made a move on me. You need our support, not solitude. Please, Mr. Herriman, come home. If not for my sake, then for your creator's. She's aged years overnight- she told me she can't feel you anymore. She's terrified you're dead or worse."

Herriman leaned his elbow on the table and brushed fur out of his eyes. Guilt swirled in his mind and he saw her out of the corner of his eye glance at the door worriedly. There was a commotion outside (wasn't there always?) and probably a weapon involved. The sooner Frankie left, the better. If anything happened to her because of him, he'd never forgive himself. And yet, a little voice whispered in his head, he'd put undue stress on her because of his selfishness.

"Can I have a day to mull this over?" he replied and tuned out the altercation. Usually, the longer one stayed here, the more one turned a blind eye to the travesties within. Sometimes, an orderly completely ignored a fight and he ended up getting pulled in the thick of it. That alone induced homesickness like he'd never contended with before. No matter how dangerous the argument in Foster's, it never escalated to lethal levels. No one died…whereas here, he had a very good chance of getting seriously injured.

Frankie growled and folded her arms across her chest. Meanwhile, outside, the door thrummed and a distant painful cry rent the air. Both shuddered deeply and their eyes met. Whatever was going on outside only enunciated her point. The sooner he left here, the sooner things might achieve normalcy or whatever passed for it in Foster's.

"You want to stay _here_? Are you insane? They're killing each other out there!" she snapped and paled. Oh, she rather hoped they weren't doing that. The thought of two imaginary friends attacking each other saddened her tremendously. Like most people, she considered many imaginary friends to be like the children who created them and their fights unsettled her. At least it sounded like it might be dying down now, but she couldn't be certain. She had no inclination to stick her head out and discover for herself.

"They'll kill _you_…"

Sighing heavily, he nodded weakly. "I know. Give me one day to determine the best course of action…and let me speak with Madame Foster. Then I will make up my mind."

Frankie opened her mouth to protest, but a glance at his face told her it was useless. This was his decision and she couldn't budge him if she tried. Swallowing hard, she nodded and rose. When she reached the door, she began to unlock the deadbolts as she felt his furry body envelope her in a hug.

"Be _careful_, Frankie."

**…**

Bloo curled up in his creator's arms and listened to his heartbeat. Since their confession, they'd alternated sleeping arrangements. Tonight, Bloo had snuck into his creator's bedroom and snuggled up beside him. It was odd and he knew he wait until tomorrow to see his beloved creator, but watching him sleep brought him more joy than he'd thought possible. He stroked his face with a blobby arm and grinned. He could lay like this forever.

Mac's arms tightened around him and Bloo snuggled closer to his chest. There'd be a mini eruption tomorrow morning when he awoke to Bloo dozing against him, but now he was safe. He'd close his eyes for a split second…and fell sound asleep.

**…**


	8. Acceptance

Disclaimer/Author's Note: I don't own Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends nor will I ever. I want to thank everyone who reviewed and hope you continue to do so. Those reviews make me very happy, you know, even if I don't have time to reply to them. (I have class in fifteen minutes, actually, ugh).

Chapter Eight: Acceptance

Bloo awoke warm and content against his creator's chest. It had a rhythmic quality, smoothly moving up and down. A strand of brown hair fell in his closed eyes and Bloo stared, captivated by the wonder of life. Pearly pink lips glistened in the morning sunlight, filtered through the shades. They were so temptingly moist and full…maybe Mac wouldn't notice one stolen kiss...

Leaning on his stubby arms, he hovered over his face. Grinning devilishly, he leaned to press his lips against Mac's when his creator awoke with a start. Creamy walnut eyes widened as his brain worked to process what had gone on in his slumber. Needless to say, the first reaction was not pleasure.

"What the hell are you _doing _here?" Mac cried, shoving him off his chest. Bloo pouted cutely, hoping Mac wasn't entirely cognizant at eight thirty in the morning. Wait, eight thirty? Didn't Mac have school in twenty minutes? Oh, well. What'd school ever do for him?

"Oh, you know, I figured you might be cold and lonely at home, so I popped over for a visit," he replied nonchalantly, listening intently. Terrence groggily pounded on the bathroom door and then stomped inside once it was clear. Mac's face tightened and he stared ahead wordlessly. If either of them came in here, he was in for it. Oh, what had he been thinking?

Mac's mother knocked on the door to alert him he'd be very late if he didn't get up now and the color drained from his face. What was he going to do? How was he supposed to hide him? Hmm, maybe he'd fit in the closet. But what if his mother had to clean in there? Well, she was working late tonight…

"You can't be here!" he hissed, cradling him in his arms. His heart rate doubled then quickened agitatedly. Bloo, meanwhile, rested comfortably. Anything involving Mac this close was fine with him. He could stay forever in his arms.

Balancing him precariously, he opened the door in one hand and hoisted Bloo in the other. Unfortunately, while one might be a great admirer of Blooregard Q. Kazoo, one has to admit he is rather thick at times. Therefore, when Mac tossed him amidst a pile of clothing, old posters, and several hole ridden backpacks, he was taken completely off guard. Still, after awaking a mere five minutes before and being somewhat logy, he probably couldn't have figured it out anyway. The door slammed and then locked, leaving Bloo stuck in his closet. He'd make this up to him when he was done hiding him.

"What the hell!" Bloo snapped, pounding on the door. Mac's mother, fortunately, knocked at the same time and covered it. Mac cast a guilty look at the closet and then reluctantly opened his door to admit his mother. He _would _make this up to his creation.

"I'm sorry, Bloo," Mac whispered to the closet door and his mother frowned, staring at him. Mac retreated guiltily and his back met wood.

"_Excuse _me? Are you whispering to the _door_? What are you hiding from me?"

"Nothing!" Mac replied, entirely too quickly. His mother's eyes narrowed, but Terrence's calls tore her attention from her younger son. Waggling a finger warningly, she left the room and both imaginary friend and creator breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a next time to worry about…

Meanwhile, not too far away but perhaps a little later, another imaginary friend faced a conundrum unlike theirs.

**…**

Around him, plates clattered and imaginary friends, brandishing plastic forks and jabbing the air threateningly, screamed. He opened his mouth to scold one about their elbows on the table but thought better of it. Frankie hadn't seen it because he'd been sitting down, but there was a large gash in his stomach after the last time. Imaginary friends here hardly took to etiquette lessons; they took to implementing bizarre weapons. Swallowing hard, he glanced down at his cold pizza slice and his hunger evaporated. He thought he might be nauseous.

Massaging his temples, he imagined a Foster's dinner and Frankie on his right. In the soft yellow light bathing the room, her delicate features would be tenderly illuminated. He exhaled sharply, missing her terribly. Her visit today had only served to remind him of his unrequited love and overwhelming desire. Maybe he had better stay here, where he wouldn't be tempted.

Still in his imaginary dinner, Madame Foster sat on his left and he swallowed hard, aware he'd abandoned her. For years he'd shown her unwavering loyalty and support in her toughest times. Whenever she needed him, he abandoned everything to attend to her. He'd held when she cried and rocked her back and forth; smiled when she laughed, and simply supported her whenever she needed a pillar of strength. And he'd selfishly abandoned her.

He hardly felt the tomato sauce or cold, wet pizza slice when it struck his face nor heard the customary fight brewing. In fact, when he idly cleaned himself up, he missed a small, elderly woman slip inside the ruckus and trail him back to the office. Deep in thought, he nearly walked into the door before remembering the code to open the door. It really was like a prison here. A prison he'd signed up for by falling in love with Frankie. Maybe he deserved this.

Head hung despairingly low, he stared at his desk. How could emotions that he thought he'd never deal with himself suddenly spring up? How could this _happen_? He'd been fine until Frankie found the journal. He could have lived denying his happiness. He could deal with misery and unrequited love as long as he kept the secret to himself.

"Oh, my Funny Bunny…" Madame Foster sighed, settling herself in the seat in front of his desk. Herriman, engrossed in thought, ignored her. There was no way he could return to Foster's with Frankie there. He was a menace to everyone there. A lump formed in his throat and wouldn't vanish upon swallowing.

Fingers combed through his fur lovingly and he jerked, brought out of his reverie by her gentle touch. He blinked, staring at his creator as she discovered the little bruises and scars buried on his arms. One particular laceration roped from his left wrist to his elbow and she traced it. Finally, mentally cursing his luck, he wrenched his arm from her grip.

"Well, Frankie told me it was bad, but I didn't think you were letting them do _this_!" she hissed, normally placid green eyes shimmering outrageously. The link he'd denied for three months abruptly ripped open and he felt her fury, indignation, upset with him for leaving her, guilt for letting him do it and making it feel like she'd shoved him away, accumulated loneliness and misery since his disappearance, and anxiety he might prefer Faust's to Foster's. Stunned, he sat, unable to focus in the emotional sea.

However, on her end, she received his anxiety she'd learned too much of his life here, fretfulness he'd never be able to return to Foster's because of his attraction to Frankie, guilt for leaving her, more anxiety but about Foster's financial state, helpless and hopelessness. The last two emotions overwhelmed the formers and dropped her jaw. She snatched his right hand in hers and squeezed it tightly, gazing at him wordlessly. Miserable black eyes met her gaze and she rose swiftly to her feet to hop up and hug him. Nonplussed, he lifted her onto his lap and let her.

"I've neglected you, my Funny Bunny…" she whispered, his anguish echoing in her soul. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she didn't know who they were for- him or her. Outside, the world might as well have melted away for all the impact it had on them. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came.

"And now you're in agony…"

Tears fell thick and heavy on his fur coat and he swallowed hard again, willing the block back in place. Yet the instant he put it up, Madame Foster knocked it back down. She didn't want to hear whatever lies he'd constructed about this place- she wanted to know everything that troubled him. If it hurt her in the process, so be it. He was her imaginary friend and they hadn't been together all this time for her to let him go easily.

"Madame…" he whispered, voice choked by suppressed sobs. "You must leave. I will make my decision soon."

Though her eyes still streamed with tears, her glare was heated. He cringed, recognizing the typical Foster's backbone. At least the emotional sea had ebbed. Now he could discern single sensations, like her fury, directed at him currently. The hand squeezing his painfully constricted his blood flow and he bit back a cry.

"I might be an old lady, Herriman, but I'm not blind. Someone here hurt you physically…and I hurt you emotionally. I love you and I'm part of the reason you ran away. I can't abandon you when you need me. And don't you dare deny you need me, either. You can't keep living here- you'll be murdered in your bed at this rate."

She gave him a shrewd look as if daring him to contradict her, but the emotions floating between them made that next to impossible. He was too awash in their bond to lie and besides, what good would come of it if he did? He could no more lie successfully about the conditions here than he could about the lacerations, scars, and bruises lining his arms and stomach. At least Frankie hadn't seen them- she would have dragged him out of here kicking and screaming if she had. Of course, there was time for her grandmother to do the same.

"You're worried about hurting Frankie because you think you're alone. You're ashamed of your affections for her, isn't that right? You don't think we all go through something like this in our lives? We don't run away from it like you did-"

Odd, such a reversal of roles. Like Mac, his customary part was the voice of reason and here he was, listening to a lecture about his behavior from his creator. The concept made him more morose than before. He was behaving so childishly, his creator surpassed him in maturity. _That _stung.

"I did _not _run away from it! I did the only suitable action I could- I removed myself from the picture. Foster's is a better place now that I'm gone-"

Yet when he said that, he was aware of its inaccuracy. Through their bond, he sensed Foster's was being mismanaged and corrupt humans were allowed to run it, using government funds for their own selfish fancies. If his leaving hadn't helped it there, what good _had _it done? It hadn't stopped his love for Frankie, it hadn't broken his bond to Madame Foster, and it hadn't done much of anything other than get himself hurt and have others worry about him.

But that wasn't why he ran away, was it? After three months, his original reasons faded into nothingness. He hadn't done the right thing, he acknowledged his mistake now. But was he ready to return home? Did it matter? Madame Foster had a point- if he stayed here too much longer, he'd be dead. Which was worse, his death or the temptation of Frankie?

What was he doing here, though? He wasn't serving an important function like at Foster's. He was a secretary, scribbling down medicinal notes and practice treatments. Most of them drifted by mindlessly because their names were not familiar to an uneducated rabbit like him. If he left, they probably wouldn't miss him. It'd be one less imaginary friend to consider defending. He was worthless here.

"_Well_?" she inquired, puncturing his thoughts. He blinked, glancing down at the miniscule figure on his lap. She hugged him tightly and he sighed, arriving at a decision. If he stayed here, he served no greater purpose than a computer might. At least at Foster's, he could bury himself in paperwork. Here, he didn't have that luxury.

"Let me gather my things," he replied and she smiled softly, jumping onto his desk to kiss him on the cheek.

**…**


	9. Battle Plan

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Chapter Nine: Battle Plan

In Faust's, there'd been a group of imaginary friends who loathed him from the get go. They'd been the ones to inflict his bruises and lacerations; one tried to stab him in the chest with a fork. Whether it was because their humans had his manners or because they disliked the time he'd spent in his creator's company, they found every excuse to attack him. Disused to constant beleaguering, he'd tried to reason with them and then, failing miserably, hid. The sad thing was he felt more at home there right now than he did here, where he'd spent a majority of his life.

Hopping into the dining hall, every eye seared into his fur and scrutinized the scars riddling his arms and belly. Despite this, he forced his head upright and glanced away. At least at Faust's if he needed to escape, no one knew his name. No one would notice his absence. Here, everyone had and were breaking out into frantic whispers about his whereabouts. As terrible as it sounded, he thought he might miss Faust's already.

Frankie walked beside him and ran commentary about what had transpired in his absence, but he scarcely heard her. Everyone expected an explanation and he wasn't ready to give it. What on earth was he to say, anyway? He'd run off because the burden of an unrequited love was too much? That even now, he was having misgivings about returning home because he might actually prefer being stabbed in the heart to seeing Frankie this close?

Madame Foster hobbled on his right and supplemented when needed, but behind her smile, she fretted. Since she'd learned how to tear down his mental blocks, he could hide nothing from her and she caught his uncertainty and lament. Since she couldn't pinpoint where the emotions sprang from, it was hard to tell what he lamented, but she knew him well enough to guess. Glancing up, she bit her lip and squeezed his paw. Maybe he wasn't here to stay after all.

_Funny Bunny, do you really think I'm going to let you go again? You can't keep running away from us_, Madame Foster thought and squeezed his paw tighter.

Never before had the journey felt so long. In Faust's, he'd snatched a tray and vanished into a corner of the room. His stalker imaginary friends occasionally bothered him, but in his corner, he was unnoticed. Here, everyone had their eyes on him. His stomach wrenched and he thought he might be sick. Too many imaginary friends who cared too much about his welfare.

Mac and Bloo sat together, Bloo actually on his creator's lap, and observed him. Bloo opened his mouth to comment, probably unfavorably, when Mac covered his lips with his hand. He stroked his blobby head and cradled him to his chest. The imaginary blob turned around, wrapped his arms around his chest possessively, and leaned against him. Well, that was unexpected.

"_Mine_," Bloo purred, grinning devilishly. Mac rolled his eyes and smiled weakly, used to this.

Nonplussed, Mr. Herriman hopped past the bizarre display of affection and finally descended to his seat at the head of the table. Silence hung like a cloak over the denizens of Foster's and he swallowed hard, aware a speech was in order. Frankie vanished inside the kitchen to retrieve dinner and Madame Foster followed. So many familiar faces sought his and the color drained from his face. The usual authoritarian sensation fled, replaced by panic. What was he supposed to say?

Pressure mounted and his heart thundered in his chest. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butcher knife, forget a butter knife. The longer he stayed here, the more his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his paws perspired inside his gloves. A lump choked his throat and he swallowed to no avail. This was more than he could bear.

Wordlessly, he rose from his seat, pushed it back in, and fled into the kitchen. There Frankie added the last few ingredients to her macaroni and cheese and conversed quietly with her grandmother. Herriman hung back, aware he was interrupting something. Maybe he shouldn't have come home at all…he felt as welcome here as he did at Faust's if not less. Maybe he should leave after dinner…

_And return to what? An imaginary friend stabbing you in the chest in the night? That group attacking you whenever your back is turned? Another slashed portrait of your creator? You cannot stay there and you know it_, the little voice in his head berated him.

Inclining his head, he frowned, recognizing the topic of discourse. It was him.

"He wants to leave, I can tell," Madame Foster said, snatching flagons of juice and soda to place on the table. "We have to talk to him. He's got so many negative emotions swirling around, it's a miracle he didn't drive himself mad during the three month separation."

"You're really worried about him, aren't you?" Frankie asked, finishing up and moving the mixture into a large bowl. "And I can't understand why he'd want to go back to Faust's…that place gives me the creeps."

It gave any sane creature, regardless of whether they were imaginary or human, the shivers. Hell, Herriman had spent his whole first night curled up and quivering under the blankets. The screams outside hadn't helped much, either. They'd placed him inside a locked ward until they found him better living quarters and the insane howls never quite left him. He'd spent his first fortnight staring at the walls and counting tiles; he hadn't slept a wink unless he fell unconscious.

Maybe the reason he wished to return to Faust's was because of his anonymity. His past was his past and no one gave a damn there. He could have slaughtered tens of thousands and since he wasn't a patient, people shrugged. Here, people knew what he'd done and who he was. They probably knew he'd been acting odd around Frankie and were at least curious as to his whereabouts. It was that curiosity that was killing him.

They fell into silence, each thinking their own respective thoughts. Frankie walked past him without noticing him, but Madame Foster halted, staring. Her somber eyes swept him and lingered on his scars. Soundlessly, she squeezed his paw and walked out as well. They _would _talk later.

* * *

"Are you going to unpack or take off again to be someone's dart board?" Madame Foster called, jarring Herriman out of his reverie. A pile of papers lay completed by his right paw and he'd been spacing out, debating his position. The logical, self preserved side ordered him to forget Faust's, but the emotional, petrified side told him at least at Faust's he wouldn't have to deal with Frankie and the complications of his absence. The emotional side of him was a coward…but he found himself agreeing with it.

Maybe it _would _be easier to avoid Frankie than to contend with his feelings again. Then again, he _had _spent the last three months doing exactly that to no avail. His feelings hadn't vanished, his loneliness and guilt soared, and in his heart of hearts, he knew running away would solve nothing. It would be one thing if he'd gotten over it, but this was too deep to be fixed.

Perhaps Madame Foster understood that because in strode Frankie. Great…just great. He'd spent his time avoiding the subject and here it was in black and white. Why hadn't he learned his lesson and locked his door? Infernal thing.

"You're not leaving again," Frankie told him sternly and situated herself in the chair in front of his desk. Since his return, he'd cringed and awkwardly cleaned his office, but trace remains of the others' lingered. Frankie loathed it. She loathed the sensation he was only here until he found a permanent way to avoid her. She hated being the reason he was miserable. But what was the alternative?

Yet Madame Foster apparently thought of it beforehand. No sooner had Frankie settled herself than her grandmother ushered her out. There she stood in the hall and huffed. What on earth was she thinking? First she said she wanted her with her and then she changed her mind? Jeez.

Once they were alone, Madame Foster cast the doors a shrewd look then locked it soundly. At least the room was soundproof. She had no intention of letting inquiring minds get wind of this.

Leaning across the table, she whispered so he had to cock his ears, "How'd you like to be human?"

* * *

Swallowing hard, he flexed his new arms and fingers experimentally. Madame Foster stood behind him and nodded approvingly. She'd spent the last hour nodding, adjusting, and cropping an old suit of her late husband's. He felt uncomfortable inside, but there was nothing else to wear. Unlike his rabbit form, he could hardly stroll around half naked.

Sighing heavily, he glanced into the mirror. A stately gentleman of indeterminate age, gray hair minus a bowler hat since she felt it'd be too revealing, bushy eyebrows and mustache, an old orange suit with a black tie, and shiny black dress shoes that pinched his feet. He scarcely recognized the crinkly brown eyes staring back at him. Madame Foster assured him he could transform back and forth as he willed, but he disliked this. Nothing was familiar and he was certain he would trip when he tried to walk instead of hop.

He ran a shaky hand through the marvel humans called 'hair", an article Madame Foster had fussed over when she was much younger. It at least covered his palate, which was more than he could say for humans his age. At least he didn't look his age- that would be a recipe for disaster. Instead, he resembled a middle aged man, excepting his hair color. Certain traits of his would carry over automatically.

Taking Madame Foster's suggestions, he put one foot in front of the other…and tumbled to the floor. She slapped a hand to her forehead and helped him to his feet. They'd need another three months before he was ready, at this rate. They had their work cut out for them.

* * *

In the dark of the night, Madame Foster taught Mr. Herriman how to walk, talk, and behave like himself yet hide his true self. That was the art- wooing Frankie without having her figure out who the human really was. The art of deception…because Herriman was certain she'd never love him if she knew the truth.


	10. Copycats and Conundrums

Disclaimer: Back and better than ever! Now with fifty percent more FOP obsessiveness. Foster's is _not _mine.

Chapter Ten; Copycats and Conundrums

Mac drummed his fingers on the desk and his attention slipped another two notches. Before him lay his homework, an open text, and a doodle of Bloo grinning mischievously at him. Though it was only a drawing, he yearned for the real thing. Sometimes, school lasted entirely too long. Who need math when you could make out with your imaginary friend? Okay…so that didn't sound entirely right. Nonetheless, his boredom struck and caused his hand to sketch them lazily, Bloo in his arms and his lips grazing his chin.

So intent on his drawing was he that when Richie leaned over and watched, smirking, he ignored him completely. The blond haired boy's eyes widened, following Mac's pencil as it completed his hand around Bloo's midsection. Short little bursts of breath escaped him, but otherwise, the other boy was completely silent. He smirked, wondering why anyone would waste that much time shading a blue blob.

"He's nothing compared to Blakesuperior, you know," Richie said offhandedly, smirking when Mac jumped. A flush spread across his face and he hastily hid the offending sheet as though doing so would erase his memory of its existence. There were more explicit ones inside his notebook, ones Bloo would love to get his little appendages on. He never suspected his creator had a dirty mind too, but kept that to himself. (Whereas everyone in and around Foster's now knew the completely incorrect terms for sex and various styles. Frankie had to detain him with no paddleball, no TV, and no video games for a week before he stopped).

Mac rolled his eyes, but guiltily paid more attention. Maybe later he'd enact a few pictures. That thought was enough to spur him to tune out Richie and focus on his class work.

**…**

Madame Foster offered Mr. Herriman a weak smile he neither returned nor acknowledged. Three months of laboring and toiling lead to this moment, quite possibly the most clichéd plan in the history of clichéd plans. A random car they borrowed from a local rental company sat, unmovable, in front of the gates of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. Herriman eyed it warily, not one to forget Bloo's wild ride five years ago. At least he now had a license and wasn't going to let that little terror give him a heart attack.

He swallowed hard, aware his thoughts were spiraling out of control. His heart raced in his chest and his mouth was devoid of any liquid whatsoever. Bile rose in his throat and he wondered if he'd vomit. Just to be certain, he'd abstained from eating or drinking anything, probably why his stomach clenched in protest. If this didn't go according to Madame Foster's plan, he'd lock himself up in his office and take meals there. That was, if he ever felt like eating again.

Frankie toiled in the garden and he exhaled sharply, aware there was no turning back. His palms sweat profusely and he glanced once more at his creator. She squeezed his hand once and then shoved him towards the car. She loved her creation dearly, but it was time for him to sever their link temporarily to improve his happiness. They both understood, but he clung terribly to the hope his feelings would go away. Once he discovered they intensified painfully, he finally agreed. Now, his feelings had to either let him sink or swim.

Madame Foster vanished and he sat disconcertedly inside the broken car. Bloo, always glad to destroy anything, made short work of the internal engine. It turned over, sputtered, and then promptly died. Well, he had to hand it to Bloo- when it came to annihilating anything, be it dreams or cars; he certainly knew what he was doing. He shuddered at the thought of him investigating their electrical work.

Frankie glanced up, laying aside her trowel and wiping her forehead. Mud clung to her oversized pink gloves and caked her face, but he thought she still looked heavenly. Her hair was completely drawn back in a pigtail, no free strands remained, and she donned an old Foster's propaganda t-shirt, ironically with Herriman's rabbit visage on the front. The jeans she wore were loose, but not nearly enough to conceal her hourglass figure. His heart skipped a few beats and then several more.

Several excruciating minutes passed, filled only with his constant beating of a dead horse and her approaching footsteps. His heart landed promptly in his throat and stayed there, swallowing his words when she arrived. Or maybe it was that even in the most mundane clothing, she was a goddess. He didn't deserve this chance…

"Having some problems?" she said cordially and he swiftly exited, praying she couldn't hear his heart race or see his palms sweat. Fortunately, she noticed neither, only eying the vehicle. Well, that was one deposit Budget Car wouldn't be getting back. Not unless Bloo was as good at putting things together as dissembling them, which he doubted.

"It is the infernal engine. It won't start," Herriman said, indicating the hood vaguely. Truthfully, he had no idea what the difference between the engine, the carburetor, or anything else under that thing was, but Madame Foster assured him she'd taught Frankie. He certainly hoped so, because if she hadn't, this would be a bust. Frankie'd call AAA and he wouldn't be able to strike up a conversation in his human form or ask her out.

"Let me take a look at that."

She crossed Foster's driveway and out to the main gates. When their eyes met, all the air escaped his lungs at once and, for a split second, he thought there was a spark. However, the moment he sensed it, it faded into nothing. Maybe his overwhelming desire imprinted sensations never present to begin with. His spirit sunk- maybe this wouldn't work and he'd never hold Frankie in his arms again or kiss her. He'd have wasted three months and his creator's imagination for naught.

Her eyes traversed his face and an uncertain look entered her green orbs. What if she recognized him? However, the look, like the spark, dissipated and she opened the hood. He smirked, wondering if Bloo had left _anything _salvageable at all. Of course, there were some things he couldn't touch, unless he wanted to land in an early grave.

"What are you doing around here, anyway? You look too old to adopt an imaginary friend…no offense," she inquired lightly, prodding a few instruments. He winced, clueless to what she was doing. Deciding it'd look better if he peered interestedly; he strode behind her and watched. So closet, and yet so far…to die and enter heaven was to touch her…

"My studio isn't that far from here…I'm a photographer," he replied and that at least was partially true. When they were searching for possible jobs for the human Herriman, Madame Foster discovered a pile of photos and declared them professionally rendered. He'd denied it, but a second life was born. She'd even gone so far as to buy him a studio in case Frankie ever asked…that and she found her imaginary friend's hidden hobby amusing. He'd stared, stricken, as she pulled out an entire folder of Frankie pictures.

"What do you photograph?" she replied, testing the oil. A minor explosion drove them away from the car before the entire contraption burnt to the ground. He flung himself at her and knocked her to the ground, careful to prop up her head lest it hit the concrete; the car burned merrily behind them. Bloo had only been seconds away from inciting an explosion before…

Frankie glanced from the smoldering ashes of the hood to her savior, whose face was lit up like a Christmas light. He smiled weakly, dazed. Fortunately, he'd the good fortune to wrap his arms around her waist instead of any other part of her body. Still, they _were _pressed together tightly and he _could _feel her against him. If he wasn't careful, he'd lost control of his tongue _and _his sense, positively volatile.

"You saved me…" she murmured faintly, blushing heavily. The heat from their faces nearly rivaled that from the car.

"How can I ever repay you?"

His lips twisted in a smirk and as he helped her to her feet, his hands lingered on her waist.

"A date would be nice."

**…**

Bloo pounded the remote and whacked it against the sofa cushion. Wilt, nonplussed, leaned over to extract the small device before it fell apart, but Bloo obdurately kept it from his grasp. The channel fell upon the local news and Bloo, temporarily distracted, never noticed Wilt's hand snake out and carefully extract the remote. He was too busy glaring at the screen.

"And the day is saved once again, thanks to Blakesuperior!" the reporter announced cheerfully, standing in front of Townsville Bank. Three large eyed girls who looked to be about eleven glared at the liger and one, a green eyed girl with black hair, pounded her balled up arm peg into her other. If looks could kill, that imaginary friend would be long buried by the time they were done.

"Show off," Bloo and Buttercup muttered simultaneously. A door swung open and, relieved but griping about show-off friends and their stupid super powers, Bloo darted to his creator. Meanwhile, on TV, Buttercup was receiving a lecture from _her _creator about the importance of not attacking imaginary friends. The lecture didn't seem to be subduing her temper much.

"That Blakesuperior thinks he's the 'best imaginary friend ever imagined'," Bloo snapped and Buttercup muttered. Both creators shook their heads, one to take their creation's mind off him and the other to say that some things were better left unspoken. It was time for Blakesuperior to glare hostilely at the three girls.

"Can you turn that off, Wilt?" Mac said and he nodded.

Grabbing his imaginary friend's arm, he steered him into the corner of the room. Bloo glared up, forever displeased with the height difference. Though he'd grown substantially since he was eight, he only came up to his creator's stomach. Mac knelt down to him since that was the only way he'd listen.

"That Blakesuperior thinks he's so great- he's _nothing _compared to me!" Bloo snapped and Mac rolled his eyes. He stroked the side of his face and he smiled, holding his hand. Wilt swiftly left, uncomfortable when they got like that but too polite to mention anything.

A devilish gleam lit Bloo's eyes and he leapt forward abruptly, snatching Mac's face between his appendages. Before Mac could think, much less do anything about it, he'd pressed his lips against his passionately. The sheer force stole Mac's breath away and he dropped his jaw. Bloo took advantage of that and explored his mouth with his tongue. His teeth tingled, his heart raced, and he felt dizzy.

Bloo ran his tongue along Mac's lips and then propelled himself at him, knocking him onto his back. Fortunately, since the trip wasn't that long, nothing ached terribly, but the poor boy was a little stunned. He mussed up his creator's hair and kissed him explosively once more. Mac's head was reeling.

"I bet he doesn't kiss like that," he beamed. "Right? I _am _the best."

"I…" he stammered, waiting for his brain to return. It didn't seem to want to work. Dazed, stunned, flabbergasted, and nonplussed (yes, though those words all mean the same thing, he was all of them at once), he stared up at him like he'd never seen him before. Bloo continued to grin.

"C'mon, say it. Say I'm the best," he prodded, snatching another kiss. His kiss was so passionate, he forgot to breathe. A few moments later, Mac choked and sputtered. A few more kisses like that and he'd be unconscious on the floor. Where had he learned to _do _that?

"(You're almost as good as Blakesuperior and Richie,)" a familiar voice intoned, clicking her beak approvingly. "(But Richie doesn't stare up at the ceiling afterwards)."

"_What_?" Bloo thundered, hopping off his creator immediately. He glared at Coco and she smiled cryptically.

"(Ask Mac)," she replied and left the room. Her insane cackles echoed in the hallways.

"_What_?" Bloo cried, turning to him.

Mac shrugged helplessly and sat up. "It might be because he's trying to show us up…but Richie and Blake are a couple too."

**…**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! That's Goddess of Unfinished Projects, Ami, A.G., MisterBlue (BLUE!), Airie Chan, Chocolate14, and S-A. I stopped replying to reviews because I feel like I'm being redundant. **

**Please be sure to keep reading and reviewing. Until we meet again…**


	11. Unpleasant Surprises

Author's Note/Disclaimer: First chapter written in the new Microsoft Word 2003! Okay, so it's not that new, but it's new to me since I've been using Word 2000 since I first got a computer. So yay.

At any rate, nasty cliffhanger coming up, so don't kill me. Read and review people, onegai? Thank you.

Oh, and Foster's is not mine.

Chapter Eleven: Unpleasant Surprises

Blooregard Q. Kazoo eyed the enemy warily and narrowed his azure eyes. Folding his blobby arms across his chest, he leered and waited for his opponent's next move. Unfortunately, he failed to anticipate that folding your arms across your chest when you've been using someone's head to prop yourself up might not be the best idea and proceeded to drop off his shoulders and onto the ground. Grand, now he had to leer _up_. Where was the fear in that? At least on Mac's shoulders there wasn't as substantial a height difference as there was now. Goddamn it.

Mac too, drawn by Richie's stance and insinuations, glanced briefly down before returning his eyes upward. On the blond boy's face danced a smirk and a challenge. Blakesuperior wrapped a furry and supposedly affectionate arm around his creator and, if possible, Richie's smirk broadened. Mac's eyes narrowed to slits. Something was fishy here, but he wasn't certain what yet.

"Do you really believe your puny imaginary blob can be as a suitable lover as _my _Blakesuperior?" Richie scoffed, as conceited and snobbish as he'd been when they were eight. The only difference now was that he had a following…and he knew Mac and Bloo were more than friends. Come to think of it, around the time Mac realized his feelings for Bloo, Richie had propitiated the idea of imaginary lovers. Hmm…

Growling from the pavement, Bloo retorted, "I'm three times the lover your stupid _liger _is. And _I _don't have a swishy cape, either. I'm the real deal, buster!"

Calculating blue eyes glared at Bloo, but he held his ground. He was used to this, considering a lot of creatures detested him to begin with. He'd even distinguished levels of loathing, much to Mac's chagrin. He pointed out imaginary friends and detailed why and what the subject disliked. The only thing was here the reason was sketchy and his ego dove in front.

"Is that so?" he murmured, a threat dangling. Blakesuperior snickered and stroked his face. Peculiarly, Mac found the display sickening, like it was just that, a show. He glanced at his own imaginary friend and scooped him up again. Safely ensconced in his arms, he blew the two a raspberry and then snuggled against his chest.

"Look, I don't _care _what kind of lover he is. Love isn't something you can bet on. It's a real emotion that comes from the heart," Mac protested, stroking his creation's face and hugging him tightly.

Bloo smirked. "So, what do you wanna wager?"

Mac, though he probably shouldn't have been after ten years, was aghast. Slackening his grip, he glanced, outraged, at him. He might know his best friendboyfriend innately, but he never failed to surprise him. Bloo was like a cannon ready to explode without provocation. It made life exciting, but as safe as eating meals on top of a moving train.

"_What_? You can't be serious," he cried, wishing Blake and Richie didn't find his response terribly amusing. They snickered, sizing them up. Apparently, they decided they were beneath them, for another round of snickers erupted. Mac clenched his teeth.

"Come, how much do you wanna bet we're a better couple?" he replied. "I bet we can kick their ass!"

Shaking his head, he muttered, "This isn't a contest-"

"A hundred dollars," Richie replied smugly. "You have one month to prove that you two are better suited for each other than we are. And whoever loses has to break up- for good."

"You got yourself a deal," Bloo shot back and held out his blobby arm to shake. Flabbergasted, Mac stood motionlessly as the two shook on it and then waltzed off. His imaginary friend had just _bet _their romantic future. The shock had rattled him and delayed any response.

When the two were out of earshot, Mac dropped Bloo like a brick and gawked. Blinking, he berated him and dusted himself off. The glazed look left his brown eyes and he snapped to attention, folding his arms across his chest, eyes blazing. Such fury that he hadn't seen directed at him in at least three days and from his creator in a week. Even so, he retreated, slightly intimidated.

"What do you think you're _doing_? Bloo, you just bet _us _for a hundred dollars!" Mac cried, frustrated and furious almost beyond words. He began to pace, randomly kicking rocks in the schoolyard. One of them flew at least four feet before stopping dead, embedded in a metal swingset.

Bloo gulped, not comprehending the gravity of the situation. What was Mac freaking out over? This was just a bet, nothing more. And a bet meant a competition which he _would _win. There weren't any consequences because he _would _win. Therefore, he hadn't even bothered to listen further. He was already plotting how he'd humiliate Blake and Richie afterwards.

"_Relax_, what's the worst that could happen?" Bloo grinned consoling and Mac scowled in response.

"They could force us to break up! Weren't you even listening?" he cried, throwing his hands up.

"Not really, no," he confessed, not troubled in the slightest. "What difference does it make? We're going to win anyway. They're losers."

Taking several deep breaths, he observed the surrounding landscape to force coolness before he responded. Every limb in his body trembled in rage. However, he knew it wouldn't do any good to get angry with him. He had no idea the magnitude of what he'd cockily agreed to. He never usually did.

Through gritted teeth, he retorted, "Do you ever _think _before you talk?"

"Why should I? Besides, we're going to win. Don't get so worried," Bloo replied, using a branch as leverage as he swung back onto his creator's shoulders and then hopped into his arms. He smiled brightly at him and nuzzled his chest and then his cheek. He wrapped his arms around him possessively.

"We'll win."

Sighing heavily, Mac whispered, "I hope you're right."

* * *

Mr. Herriman leaned back in his chair, the only comfort he afforded himself considering how fastidious he was about work and life in general, and gazed at Frankie's picture. Their first date had gone surprisingly well; his anxiety and nerves overlooked by his charm, and the next few hadn't been bad, either. In fact, Frankie seemed to be falling for him- and that was the problem. 

Leaning his head on his paws, he stared blankly ahead. Frankie might be falling, but it wasn't really for him. It was for his human form. Madame Foster assured him that she'd love his normal guise as well once she discovered the truth, but he wasn't as certain. He had the sinking suspicion that revealing himself would garner the loss of the love of his life. No ordinary human would be seen dead with a large, imaginary rabbit as a lover. The whole notion was absurd to begin with. Maybe he shouldn't have brought his concerns to his creator in the first place…

Perhaps in tune with his thoughts, Madame Foster knocked on the office door and he opened it to admit her. She took one look at his face and frowned. Hobbling up to the desk, she rapped her cane smartly on the top and waited for him to be seated before she spoke. He swallowed hard, wishing their link were less powerful because then her insight would be much less keen.

"Well, what are you second guessing now? If it's the dating Frankie and pretending you're human thing, then-" she rapped smartly on the cane again and papers scattered. He bent to retrieve them and received a sharp rap on the back of the head. Eyes watering, he hastily straightened them and avoided her stern gaze.

"Ouch! Madame, don't you think this might be stretching it too far? What if she cares for Benjamin, the human?" he murmured, rubbing his sore temples. Though she was practiced at only striking to reprimand and not injure, that hardly extracted the dull throbbing.

Frankie, in the middle of dusting a bust outside his office, stopped to listen. In the past few weeks, she hadn't seen hide nor hare of the imaginary rabbit except slinking off during mealtimes. He was back to holing himself up in his office again and though his behavior worried her, when she brought it up with her grandmother, she merely shook her head. She had the distinct impression there was something going on she wasn't privy to. And if it took being underhanded (though that was how this whole thing started), she didn't care. She was going to find out…and besides, she was supposed to be cleaning here anyway. Anything she just _happened _to hear couldn't be held against her, right?

"So what if she is? It's not like she's an idiot. She'll figure it out," she reassured her friend and Frankie leaned closer. Curiosity killed the cat- and brought her into this situation to begin with. Come to think of it, if she hadn't snooped in the first place, this whole mess could have been avoided. She sighed, wishing every day she hadn't looked in that diary.

She'd told Benjamin about Mr. Herriman and he'd the weirdest expression on his face. He then hastily changed the subject and she'd blinked. There was something oddly familiar about him that reminded her a lot of her employer, but whenever she thought more on the subject, she discarded that notion. Mr. Herriman and Benjamin were two separate entities and to think otherwise was insanity. Working at Foster's was insanity enough for her, thank you very much.

"Yes, but I feel responsible. I created this human to appease her and even if she _does _have feelings for him, they aren't real. We are leading her on a wild goose chase and she will not be pleased when she discovers the truth," he sighed.

She eyed him keenly and rapped the desk again. The sharp noise lulled Frankie out of her pensive mood. She blinked, wondering if he was saying what she thought he was. She sincerely hoped not. However, her heart threatened to burst out of her chest and her breaths came in gasps. What if there was more to Benjamin than he was telling? What if he wasn't who he said he was? What if she'd fallen in love with a lie?

And what did he mean, he 'created' him? Imaginary friends couldn't create humans. That made no sense. Intrigued, bewildered, and befuddled, she listened on.

"If she has feelings for this 'Benjamin', then she has feelings for you! Unless you've been lying to her on these dates, you _are _Benjamin! That mean she's fallen for _you_, Funny Bunny!"

He opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of shattered clay filled their ears. When he hopped towards the door to open it further, the sound of sneakers pounding the floor greeted him. Only one person in this house wore sneakers that made that particular sound...

"Frankie, _wait_!"

* * *


	12. Realization

Disclaimer/Author's Note: All my stories are finishing up on me! (sobs) First TOS, now this! Wah!

At any rate, this one is drawing to a close soon too. I can feel it. And I'm not happy, but there's not much I can do about it. So, uh, enjoy because there isn't much left to say. Oh, and Foster's isn't mine.

Chapter Twelve: Realization

Water lilies floated in the pond by the unicorn's pen. A twenty-seven year old woman with flaming red hair and sparkling green eyes idly tossed tattered remains of a flower inside. Each petal drifted independent of its sibling and she hardly paid them any mind. Her thoughts were a dark, swirling mass of confusion as she replayed her time with Benjamin. How could she have missed those clues? How could she have been so naïve? There really were no chivalrous humans left.

The problem was now that she knew the truth, her feelings hadn't stopped. She was bewildered; how could she fall for _him _of all creatures? And she knew this was love. She'd never felt like this in her life…and she hated it. She hated the thought of falling for someone and having no say in it. Suddenly, horribly, she comprehended Mr. Herriman's situation a few months ago.

Dignified hops behind her caused her to spin around. Incredibly miserable eyes met hers and she'd never seen him look so defeated. However, he forced his face into a smile that nevertheless halted before it got anywhere near his eyes. To Frankie, it looked excruciating. The horrid thing was she wore the same expression.

"Well, Miss Frances…here we are."

Somehow, the loss of her nickname in his voice stung more than she'd expected. It was like everything between them had faded into oblivion. Benjamin was gone, like he'd never existed, and he was ducking behind the formality again. But she had no idea how to make him stop…or if she wanted it to. Maybe if he acted like everything was like it had been, the world would stop and she could get off this dizzying ride. Everything would be _normal _and this fresh hell would become Bloo's latest stunt.

"May I?" he murmured politely, indicating the log she was on. She shrugged, eyeing the pond again. One ripple in the water caused so much damage. She'd started this…she'd rocked the boat. How she loathed her curiosity; she hugged herself tightly and pretended not to notice when he sat beside her.

Silence descended and he glanced at her morosely before rising to his feet again. He only maneuvered a few feet away when Frankie rose herself and placed a hand on his furry shoulder. He shut his eyes and drew a deep, shaky breath. He wasn't going to get his hopes up and he definitely wasn't going to let his heart's racing, sweaty paws, and delirious delight in her hand on his shoulder get the best of him.

However, he confessed he had no idea how to really deal with this. He'd hid his affections away and they'd been unearthed. True, he would have suffered, but it would have been alone. He hadn't dared entertain hopes otherwise then and he scarcely dared now.

Shutting himself up in his office hadn't helped either, nor had running away. No matter what he did, he ended up hurting someone. He swallowed hard and bit back a sigh. Frankie watched him closely and he wondered what was running through her head. Was she questioning her fate like he had his? Was she wondering how best to tell him that because of his trickery, she could never love him? He knew he should have disagreed instantly to Madame Foster's idea but a small part of him had hoped so desperately she might love some part of him, if not the real creature.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not furious at you for tricking me like that," she said, yet she spoke calmly. He turned, not daring to look her in the eyes just yet. The hand on his shoulder squeezed it comfortingly and then she shifted away. Hardly surprised, though slightly disappointed, he frowned. Perhaps she was too bewildered to berate him.

"I do not blame you in the slightest," he said, inclining his head. "Were I in your situation, I would-"

Smiling weakly, she interrupted. "I'm not really in the mood for this right now, okay, Mr. H? I have a lot of thinking to do and I'd appreciate it if I was left alone."

Knowing an exit cue when he heard one, he fumbled for a response and then hopped away, leaving her to her thoughts, confused and bewildered though they were. There was nothing he could really do now, nothing he could say to make things better (though he _could _make them worse if he was a masochist). All he could do was sit out and wait for her to puzzle everything out. Unfortunately, that was not a wait he relished the thought of, yet he had no choice. This wasn't going to be solved as easily as a poorly constructed bet.

* * *

Blooregard Q. Kazoo balanced himself perfectly on the railing and rocked back and forth, worrying his creator tremendously. Already he'd nearly fallen backwards twice (and scoffed at Mac's concern as well) and Mac was not keen to see another. The two were conversing quietly, all the while spying on Blake Superior and Richie. However, oddly enough, they weren't as couply as they made themselves out to be. They sat at a picnic bench and appeared to be arguing, not making out. Then again, Bloo, who knew virtually nothing about anything, claimed that they were just about to. Mac shook his head, absent mindedly catching Bloo as he leaned too far forward. Something fishy was going on here. 

"Honestly, what _loser _holds onto their imaginary friend for longer than a few years? The only reason I keep you is because if I didn't, I'd look bad," Richie snapped, folding his arms across his chest. Bloo said "a ha!" in his arms, but Mac was concentrating on Blake's face. An incredibly hurt look entered his eyes and he turned his head to shield his creator from his pain.

However, if they were a couple, why were they arguing? Even while Bloo boasted that they were going to win, Mac tuned him out. They didn't seem like a couple at all. In fact, they didn't seem like they were friends, either. Richie was acting like Blake was dragging him down…and that he hated him. Given the looks he'd caught his creation giving his creator, Blake didn't feel the same way. Beneath the cold exterior, the liger was deeply hurt he was this willing to abandon him.

"Yes! We won, we won!" Bloo cried, pumping his fist in the air.

Meanwhile, Richie continued to berate his imaginary friend until the creature roared, baring his teeth, and abruptly flew away. The small blob shoved at his arms, but Mac tightened his hold. Whining and moping, about to bite him, he watched, annoyed, as the liger became a speck in the sky. More so than the bet, Mac found himself worried about Blake's emotional state. He was a caring soul by nature and regardless of his personal feelings about his creator, the thought of any human abandoning their creation filled him with disgust.

"Did we?" Mac whispered. "Did we really?"

"What are you talking about? Of course we did. Did you see him take off? Man, that must've been some argument. Probably about how much better I am than him. I _knew _he was jealous," he gloated, sticking his tongue out. Posing, he stood atop his arms and then promptly fell out, straight on his face onto the ground.

Sighing heavily, he wondered if there was a point in trying to locate the other imaginary friend. Unfortunately, he had no idea where he might have gone. Perhaps the best thing to do now was to prevent Bloo from running off half cocked and then see if he could fix a friendship. Not that he really cared, but anything was better than enduring more conceit at Foster's and besides…humans shouldn't leave their imaginary friends like that.

Scooping up his creation, he tightened his hold lest he run off at Richie and wondered how to best approach this.

* * *

Relationships varied amongst imaginary friends, but Richie's with his creation had never been terribly strong in the first place. Underneath his boasting and conceit, Richie's shallowness and insecurity ground Blake's nerves. They'd a series of arguments growing up, culminating in the decision that they were together as friends only in public. In private, they bickered like there was no tomorrow.

The truth was Blake was jealous when Richie got new friends, superficial though they were. Since he'd been created with the notion that he was the best friend ever, imaginary or not, he believed that his creation was wasting his time with this cretins. Moreover, when he informed him of this and the fact they were using him for his money, he'd found himself shoved rudely out of the mansion. Richie disbelieved him and refused to readmit him unless he lied and said he'd been mistaken. He hadn't done that yet.

Yet in public when he had to show off his fabulous imaginary, he'd call upon him and he'd be forced to show up. He'd become less of a friend and more of a commodity. However, he'd gritted his teeth and bore it in the hopes things would get better. They hadn't. In fact, they were steadily zooming downhill at a rate that dizzied most. This latest argument was the straw that broke the camel's back. Unless his creator apologized, this was where they would part ways. He was certain other children would value him higher than his spoiled "friend".

Yet even as he thought that, his conscience panged. They'd their disagreements, yes, but he was his creator. Wasn't that bond supposed to mean something? Mac and Bloo were tighter than friends because of it and yet, here he was, flying away from him because the very sight made him nauseous. He sighed, wishing it could be otherwise. But if neither of them wanted to work on it…

Landing on a nearby branch, he watched them, safely distanced. Perhaps they really were a testament to their relationship's strength and love. Most children left their imaginary friends as they aged and he was no exception. Miserable, he took flight again to mull the life of an ordinary imaginary friend.

* * *

Relationships fall apart and come together. In the case of Frankie and Mr. Herriman, she lay flat on her back and watched the clouds pass by. A sultry breeze swept her hair and rustled her green denim skirt. Ages ago, she'd lie here and pretend the clouds were various creatures, including her imaginary friend. She'd never an imaginary friend because she'd been so busy taking care of them. Sometimes, she wondered if she was capable of it at all.

Never had she thought she'd have one interested in her romantically, however, especially not Mr. Herriman. Persnickety creature that he was, she'd have assumed it was beyond him. After all, Madame Foster had never bothered to contradict that notion and he seemed too inflexible to show affection, much less love another.

And to think, she might have continued to think that if she hadn't stumbled upon the diary in the first place. Did she regret that? Did she regret everything that had happened afterwards? Did she wish she'd never opened it in the first place and everything was the way it had been?

Musing, she plucked a strand of grass and chewed on it reflectively. Ironically, the only thing she regretted was the way she'd found out. She'd forced his hand instead of letting him come to her. Would he have if she'd given him the time and actually been open to it? Yet the fact remained she hadn't been open until she discovered she had to be. And now that she was…she didn't mind as much.

As for feeling any more, well, time would tell on that, unfortunately. The more she thought about it, though…the more she realized the truth. Whether through accident or dumb luck, she'd fallen for him as well.

* * *


	13. Finale

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Sorry for the delay, but I had to have the perfect ending chapter. Tis sad…

And Foster's doesn't belong to me. Yes, Foster's with my damn New York accent.

Chapter Thirteen: Finale

Imaginary friends and creators are an interesting topic at the best of times and an annoyance at the worst. Most parents have learned to cope with whatever their children create and some even realize that not only are their imaginary friends sentient beings, they are completely separate from their children. Unfortunately, like children, some parents like to display imaginary friends as though they are prizes to be won or trophies earned. When a child grows up in such an environment, their imaginary friends reflect that.

* * *

Richie wasn't sure he ever truly cared for Blake Superior, but his parents had never truly cared for him, either. Therefore, he never learned how to properly concern himself with anything other than money. And now, he'd lost the only real friend he had, albeit imaginary, because he was incapable of holding onto him.

Leaves crunched underfoot as he halted, watching Blake out of the corner of his eye. The liger sat hunched on a bench; his eyes were narrowed and his tail whipped back and forth ferociously. A group of children played nearby, but when they spotted him, they leapt up suddenly and darted away. He snorted, stretching his jaw experimentally and baring his teeth.

"I thought they usually kept wild specimens contained behind bars in the zoo," Richie called nonchalantly, putting his hands in his pockets. Blake spun around, but his expression never faltered. He snapped his jaw once more, half in yawn, half threat. However, contrary to his aggressive stance, he _was_ listening.

Imaginary friends disliked abandonment, regardless of whether they were attached to their creator or not. They grew accustomed to a certain lifestyle…and, in their hearts of hearts, wished to be the best friends they could be to their creator. Blake would never admit to such a thing, but he subconsciously wished Richie would actually give a damn about something other than himself, his wealth, and reputation.

"And I thought _we _were through," he replied icily, folding his furry arms across his upper torso. The wind captured his cape and twirled it around. Richie restrained a smirk- the sitting superhero, capable of saving him from everything. He always shared in his glory, regardless of whether he actually did anything. But had he created him solely for that purpose? Or, when he was four, had he wanted something more? A companion and hero against his parents, who were never home and never cared to contact him? An ease to his loneliness?

"Is there something wrong with seeing you off, then?" he retorted, but the words coming out were not the words he truly desired. He wanted to ask him why childhood was so short lived and what was wrong with keeping your imaginary friend longer, but the thought never even occurred to him. Likewise, he wished to tell him he needed a friend, a _real _friend, not the sycophants, but how could he ask that when he didn't know himself? How could he express himself when he had no idea how to put it into words? Was he just going to let him walk out on his life when he, truly and deeply, needed him?

"I didn't think you cared that much," he replied stiffly, arching his back. Why was everything forever formal? Why couldn't he express himself clearer than this? Was it possible?

"I don't…" he murmured, but sat beside him on the bench. Blake's eyes widened, but he merely slid further down. Despondent but unaware of the reason, the towheaded boy hung his head and counted the cracks in the pavement beneath their feet. One, two, three…this was getting him nowhere. But where did he _want _to be?

"Then why are you here?" he pointed out, extending his paws. A small robin landed on it and twittered happily. Typical; nature loved him, everyone adored him. But hadn't he created him to be loved? Because he couldn't be?

"I…" he halted. The words swelled and died in his throat. A petite redheaded girl broke away from the group and stared, head cocked, at the liger. She offered him a smile he didn't return. Shaking her head, she returned to her comrades and Richie frowned, recognizing her openness and ease. He'd never be like that.

"If you do not have anything to say to me, then I will leave you, Richie. Forever."

The words hung in the air like a fetid scent. He gaped, but no words came to him. Nothing to demand, no further commands. His brain literally drew a blank. The liger inclined his head and gazed at him as if waiting for an objection. When none came, he frowned, an odd expression framing his face like losing the greatest treasure in the world, and took off.

Richie watched him until he was a speck in the sky and sank to the bench. He didn't know why, but he shared the sentiment.

* * *

Frankie lay flat on her back as the clouds rolled by. A chill autumn breeze swept her fiery auburn hair and rustled her green cardigan, but she paid it no mind. Instead, she sighed heavily, her mind cluttered and obstructed. A few leaves landed on her chest; it gently rose and fell, the only action completely uninhibited by duress. Such a simple motion, whereas love was utterly, completely bewildering and complicated.

Would she have fallen for Mr. Herriman under different circumstances? He was her boss, yes, and an imaginary friend as well. Not to mention her grandmother's creation, making their age difference vast. Yet hadn't she learned, growing up in such an unconventional house, that age, species, and appearance were nothing in considering character? They were superficial at best and hurtful at worst. They shouldn't obfuscate the issue, but she clung to them in lieu of a life preserver. She was sinking amidst her emotions.

Love…it alone baffled her. She'd heard someone once say that if you only think you're in love, you aren't. Beforehand, she might have scoffed, but now that her heart ached, skipped beats, and soared around him, she was uncertain. Love was more than a feeling- it was physical. She ached for him like a drug and that terrified her.

But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she had no control over her emotions. She might deny it, she could even go so far as to pretend it didn't exist, but it would always be there. She wondered if this was how he felt about the issue and sat up, hugging herself. Shaking her head, she lay back down. She wasn't ready to face him yet. Still too many questions, query, and conundrums.

"Miss Frances?" he called and, then murmured, "Frankie?"

She bolted upright and rose, but he placed a paw on her shoulder. Smiling benignly, he seated himself beside her and began to extract his paw when she laid her hand atop it. Awkward silence descended upon the couple, but neither was particularly eager to break it. The hand on his paw sweat profusely and she, blushing slightly, shifted it away. His eyes widened, but still, nothing was said.

"I'm so confused…" she muttered finally, eyes averted. To her surprise, a smile broke out across his face. She blinked, wondering what on earth could cause him mirth. Questions danced in her mind and in her features.

"And you think I was not? I've been dealing with this longer than you have, Miss Frances-"

"Please," she said, the corners of her lips twisting up, "call me Frankie." _I like how my nickname sounds coming out of your lips._

The smile widened and he removed his paw to hesitantly wrap his arm around her waist. Fortunately, she discovered what he was up to and aided him, thus eliminating any indecision. His furry arm was pleasantly warm and she easily envisioned herself leaning against his chest and watching the clouds together. Her heart skipped a few beats.

"Er, yes…" he murmured, having lost his train of thought. He glanced down at her as if believing this to be a dream. A sly grin spread across her face and she pinched him. He yelped, opening his mouth to chastise her.

"You're awake," she said, grinning widely. "Unless you want me to pinch you again to prove it."

Bristling, rubbing his sore left arm, he murmured, "No thank you. Once was quite enough."

"Good," she replied, smiling serenely. Gazing into his warm eyes once, she leaned her head against his chest. Now not only had he seemingly forever lost his train of thought, he was flustered as well. He couldn't very well tell her to stop, but the urgent matter had vanished from his mind. Nothing irritated him more than lost business.

"Are you deliberately trying to muddy the issue, Miss Fran-Frankie?" he murmured, blushing softly. She smirked, then recomposed herself. The added weight of her head left his chest (he wouldn't admit it aloud, but he missed it) and she turned around to look at him directly. The arm around her waist remained, albeit loosely.

"No," she said seriously. "Go on."

He stared blankly, willing his mind to return to its old path. When it didn't, he mentally cursed and then jumped as she twined her fingers in between his pads. A mock innocent smile flitted across her looks and he shook his head. She was always good at that, pretending she'd done nothing wrong. It was one of those things he'd found irksome until he fell for her…and then it became one of the reasons he loved her. That and everything else about her, from her backbone to her capabilities as a strong woman around Foster's.

"Love," she pressed, deciding he couldn't rediscover the topic of discourse himself.

"Ah, yes. Love. Love is not always the clearest thing in the world, Frankie, nor is it always pleasant. It arrives when you least expect it and grabs hold for dear life. In its purest form, it is nothing to be ashamed of, regardless of how others might view it. It is a rare, delicate thing and…"

He dropped his gaze, abashed, until she lifted his chin with her fingers. He smiled softly at her.

"I am honored to share it with you."

Blushing crimson, she replied the four sweetest words she could muster. "And I with you."

* * *

Bloo reclined in his creator's lap like a cat. He'd marked Mac as his "property" in no time, which was why the poor boy was wearing a turtleneck. The last of the autumn leaves were falling and soon it would be winter, time for scarves, heavy winter coats, and snowball fights. Not only that, but cozying around the fire and simply being together.

Of course, not everyone would be together this winter. Blake Superior had vanished and try as he might, Richie could not enunciate the reason behind his sudden moroseness. Instead, it dragged him down and blinded him to the truth. In the end, if he never figured it out, he'd become what he feared at four- a tyrant like his parents

Meanwhile, Frankie and Mr. Herriman continued their romance, all the while realizing that while they had doubted themselves and their feelings, this was normal. Of course, they didn't always discover this on their own- they had a little help from Madame Foster along the way.

Even so…they, Mac and Bloo, and everyone else in love found that love truly has no bounds.


End file.
